
■Hi 



mm 

fflffill 
HHff 



vlnl nfifufffiK Jail 91 Wfltt 

••!■=■■■,..■:: 

VI 

WMM 



ll 

E 1 1 



n« 



lllli 






■ 



flwllll 11 



m 



Hi 



HIBII1 

■■■■ 



™ 




^ 



JUL 

IB 



Bfti 

mm 



wksmm 
















^ 



















OO* 




K * 8 
> 









& " \v" 










.^ •% 







o o x 






4 -r 










N -\ 









V, ^ 



,0 0, 













& lp r- 

















V 


* 




<?■ 


* 






s* 










?rom $11$ To Son 



OR, 



The Hour and The Man. 



AN ORIGINAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS, 



MILTON NOBLES. 



Entered at the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D, C, 
March, 1887, by Milton Nobles, 

AS SOLE AUTHOR AND PROPRIETOR. 

ALL BIGHTS RESERVED. 



'MAY W\ 887 



PHILADELPHIA : 

LEDGER JOB PRINT. 



CHARACTERS. 



ALFRED ARMITAGE, under the assumed name of John Oakley 

JONAS HARDY. 

DR. MARMADUKE MANDRAKE. 

HAMILTON MANDRAKE, his son, Attorney-at-Law. 

JOB CADWALLADER, Sheriff of Yuba County, California. 

PETER GRIMES, Postmaster and Express Agent at Yuba. 

AUGUST WALDAUR. 

ABE ISAACS. 

"BUD" McKINSTRY. 

PARSONS; servant to Waldaur. 

MABEL ARMITAGE, wife of Alfred, known as Mabel Oakley. 

MABEL ARMITAGE, daughter to Alfred and Mabel. 

MRS. AMANDA STOCKUP, proprietress of Yuba Hotel. 

AURELIA STOCKUP, her daughter. 

MRS. WALDAUR, wife of Waldaur. 



from §ire to §on; or, The {Jour and the Han, 

^AN ORIGINAL DRAMAS 
BY i\dZIH.TOIsr COBLES. 



ACT I. 

Village or mini?ig camp of Yuba, California. Time i860. 
The back drop represents the village, i?icluding CJmiese 
quarters. Scene is in a lovely valley, with mountain i?i 
backgi'ound. Time, early summer. Yuba Hotel is L., ex- 
tending up from first grooves. Handsome frame struc- 
ture, with lower veranda and balcony around second story. 
Balcony and veranda overgrow?i with roses and flowering 
vines. Balcony practical. House extends well on, with 
gauze window iyi first grooves, exposing interior of main 
room. Swinging sign in front of hotel, with plai?i lettering 
— "Yuba Hotel, Amanda Stockup. " Two steps to 
reach vera?ida. Door in c. , window each side. 

On r. , extending out from first grooves, is the post-office 
and Wells-Fargo Express office. A one-story building, 
frame. In the return piece exposed to audience, zst gr. 
is a long sliding window ', or door, at bottom about five 
feet from the grouyid. It is about two a?id a half feet 
wide, and i?i grooves, top and bottom, to shove open a?id 
close with ease. It is a wooden pa?iel, ?wt a glass window* 
Sig?is 071 comer of house — U. S. Post Office — Wells- 
Fargo Express Co. Door facing centre of stage, for 
eyitrance to office. Two or three steps, leadi?ig up to door* 

As curtain rises, a Chinaman is seen on balcony, washi?ig 
second-story windows. 

Peter Grimes enters u. e., goes to door of office r. 
unlocks door, enters, and opeiis the panel towards audience 
it exposes the e7itire upper portion of his body. 



4 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Grimes. \_At window. ] Remarkably quiet to-day. The 
lull before the storm, I suppose. By storm is meant the 
arrival of the Red Dog stage, the one thrilling incident that 
is to keep Yuba from stagnation for another twenty-four 
hours. The Yuba {looking over at hotel~\ is as dull and 
sleepy as a convent. I suppose Mrs. Stockup is brushing 
up for the arrival of the coach, and preparing for business. 
Fine woman that. It's a great pity the Old Sledge stock 
her husband left don't show any signs of vitality. [Opens 
newspaper — reads. ] Stocks ! stocks ! Little Giant, 210 ; 
Red Dog, 108}^ ; Phoenix, 97 ; Bull Dog, 49 Bull Dog 
seems to have lost her grip. Mary Anne, 50 ; Blue Nose, 
50. Mary Anne and Blue Nose ought to double-up, and 
make it par. Why, Old Sledge and Straight Flush aint 
even quoted ! Too bad. Now, Mrs. Stockup has an even 
hundred thousand dollars in Old Sledge, and her daughter, 
the same in Straight Flush. Now, if Old Sledge would 
only look to say about 50, I don't know but what I might 
be tempted to make a fool of myself with that old woman. 

[Mrs. Stockup enters from house, and x. l. to window. ~\ 

Mrs. Stockup. Good afternoon, Mr. Grimes. 

Grimes. Same to you. \_Aside.~] Got up like a fifteen- 
year-old girl. 

Mrs. Stockup. I didn't get a look at the paper, yesterday. 
Anything new in the stock market? 

Grimes. Not much. Bull Dog has let go. Blue Nose 
smashed flat; and Mary Anne gone all to pieces. 

Mrs. Stockup. And Old Sledge, and Straight Flush ? 

Grimes. Not quoted. 

Mrs. Stockup. O, dear, and I paid another assessment 
last week. 

Grimes. More fool you. 
A miner enters R. I. E., goes to window, lifts hat to Mrs. 

Stockup. Grimes hands him letter. He exits, opening 

letter, r. I. E. Aurelia appears on balcony. Small pro- 
file stage coach and horses work across from R. to L., neat 

top of mountain. 

Aurelia. O, mamma ! mamma ! the stage is coming. I 
can see it crossing the upper grade. Quick, Hop Se, go 
and get ready to carry in the trunks. 

[Aurelia exit into house, followed by Hop Se. 

Mrs Stockup. Sure enough; well, it's time. Nearly an 
hour late. Don't forget, Mr. Grimes, to send me word 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 5 

about the quotations as soon as you receive the mail. [Calls. ~] 
Long Shin, Gee Wee, the coach is coming. Dish up ! dish 
up! and don't forget Dr. Mandrake's private cup; he'll 
certainly be here to-day. 
Exit into house . Larger-sized coach x. s. from L. to R. 

Aurelia enters from house. 

Aurelia. There it comes ! thank goodness ! I do hope 
some one will come to-day. Of all the dull, stupid places a 
human being was ever cooped up in, this is the worst. Ex- 
cepting the gamblers, there isn't a man in the camp that 
offers the slightest encouragement for a flirtation. [Third 
and large stage crosses from r. to L.] I suppose Dr. Man- 
drake and his son, the lawyer, will be here to-day. They 
are a little better than nobody, but not much. They seem 
to consider it a condescension to be good-natured ; though 
I remember once, about two months ago, they both became 
wonderfully attentive to mamma. And the Doctor even 
hinted that his widowed life was a very lonely one. That 
was the same day that there was a reported look-up in Old 
Sledge stock. The next day the rumor was contradicted, 
and the Doctor forgot all about his loneliness, and went to 
bed as contented and mellow as usual. That was a queer 
idea of papa's, leaving mamma a hundred thousand in Old 
Sledge, and me the same in Straight Flush, and so placed that 
neither of us can sell. Papa was such a funny man. But 
he always insisted that the old mines would come to the 
front again, and I suppose he feared we might sell it for 
nothing, or marry some scheming fortune-hunters, and 
loose it entirely. Papa was such a funny man. But I 
guess he was a little longer-headed than people gave him 
credit for. 

Concord coach and four horses enter from L. u. E. , and stop, 
leaving coach C. 

When coach and horses are not used, a large-sized profile, 
with working wheels and working horses, is worked 
across veiy quickly, and characters enter from R. u. E. 
Mrs. Stockup and Aurelia stand on veranda to welcome 
guests. Grimes closes window^ and goes out to receive 
mail bags a?id express boxes, which are brought forward 
and taken into office. Trunks are taken from "boot" 
and into house by Chinamen. Passengers have on ulsters 
and traveling caps. All get parcels, hats, boxes, &c. 



6 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Dr. Mandrake and Hamilton M. come doivn c. Doc- 
tor, a hale and hearty fellow of fifty; H. Mandrake, 

genteel fellow of twenty -five. Mrs. Stockup comes for- 
ward. Each seizes a hand, effusively. 

Both. How glad I am to see you. 

Mrs. Stockup. [Surprised.] Well, I'm sure you're very 
welcome back. 

Dr. Ah ! There's no place like home. 

Ham. And such a home. 

Dr. And such a fair presiding genius to welcome the 
weary wanderer. 

Ham. How I have counted the weary hours that kept 
me from this dear old spot. 

Aurelia. \_On veranda. ~] Dear me ! Old Sledge must be 
looking up again. 

Dr. [Aside.'] Ham seems wonderfully effusive. I wonder 
if he got that pointer on old Sledge, too ? 

Ham. [Aside.] The Governor seems very effusive. I 
wonder if he got that pointer on old Sledge, too ? 

Mrs. S. But come ! dear me ; supper will be cold. 

Dr. Ah, true ; allow me. [Offers arm.] 

Ham. And what's to become of me ? [Offers arm.] 

Dr. and H. , both very effusive, Mrs. S. , surprised. 

Mrs. S. Are there any more passengers ? 

Ham. Yes, a couple of gamblers and a woman. 

Mrs. S. How do you know they are gamblers ? 

Aurelia. [From veranda]. Because they looked more like 

gentlemen than any of the other passengers, I suppose. 

[Dr., Ham and Mrs. S., exit into house. 

Mabel, John Oakly^^ Jonas Hardy enter from r. u. e. 

or coach, as ihey come down.] 

Grimes. [From door, to stage driver.] Bill, what made 
you late to-day ? 

Bill. Had a wash-out. 

Grimes. Whereabouts? 

Bill. Yuba Dam ! [Drives off.] 

[Grimes enters office. 

fohn. Come girl, give us a smile. That's a faint one, 
but better than none. Poor child, you're all worn out. 

Mabel. O, no, John ; only a little tired. I shall be myself 
again after a night's rest, [fonas down r.] 

Aurelia. [Coming forward.] How pale she is; let me 
show you to a room. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAX. 7 

Mabel. O, thank you, you are so good. 

Aurelia. [ Aside. ,] And he called her a woman. She ap- 
pears to me to be a lady. [Going l. z^z'M Mabel. 

Mabel. You are coming, ain't you, John ? 

John. Yes, dear ; I won't be a minute behind you. 

[Aurelia and Mabel enter house. 

Jo7ias. Mabel don't seem well to-day, John. 

John. No, poor girl. She don't stand roughing it as 
well as she did ten years ago. I don't myself, for that mat- 
ter. 

Jonas. I've noticed it. You've been dealing wild lately. 
You seem to have lost all heart in your business. It wont do ; 
you must brace up old man. This camp will be paid to- 
morrow, and there's good money here for us. 

John. O, confound the money, and the cards too. 

Jonas. The cards will confound you if you don't handle 
them more carefully. John Oakley, you can't drink 
brandy and deal faro too. 

John. You are mistaken, Jonas. Not a drop of liquor 
has passed my lips for a month. 

Jonas. I'm glad to hear it. 

John. And not a drop of liquor will ^z^rpass them again. 

Jonas. So much the better ; as a matter of business, you 
must give up brandy or cards. 

John. I shall give up both. 

Jo?ias. [Laughing.^ Think so ? 

John. I know so. 

Jonas. When ? 

John. Sooner than you think, old fellow. 

Jonas. You'll feel better humored after you have had a 
good supper. 

John. Are you coming in ? 

Jonas. Not just yet. I'll take a look about the camp, 
and find a room for the lay-out. 

John. I'll deal no cards to-night. 

Joyias. O, yes, you will. 

John. I say no. [Firmly. ~\ After supper I want to have a 
talk with you ; so don't be far away. 

[Exit John into house. 

Jonas. There's something up. For just a minute the 
old time fire was in his eye. It won't do to cross him to- 
night. Wants to have a talk with me ? What can it be? 
I wonder if the woman has — O, no ! not that, for then 



8 FROM SIRE TO SON J OR, 

there would be shooting, but no talking. But John Oakley 
is a changed man, and the change dates from their last 
trip down to Frisco. What can it be ? [Musing L. c. 
Grimes opens window, then comes out, and goes up c, gets 

box of express ?natter, and comes down, Jonas starts up 

c. , and they meet. Peter drops box. 

Grimes. O Lord ! Jonas Hardy ! 

Jonas. [Starts — then recovers himself. ~\ Why, Grimes, 
old man, I thought you were in San Quenten, or hung long 
before this. 

Grimes. Don't — don't say those blood-curdling things in 
that matter-of-fact way. 

Jonas. What are you doing here, Grimes ? 

Grimes. Same old business. 

Jonas. Well, Well, postmaster and express agent, eh? 
There's nothing like sticking to what you are handy at. 
Does the Yuba office pay as well as Grass Valley ? 

Grimes. Don't — don't say anything about Grass Valley 
here. I've reformed. I'm respectable now. Why, I'm a 
deacon now, and as straight as a string. 

Jonas. You'll soon get over that. You couldn't be hon- 
est very long-. You ain't built that way. 

Grimes. Well, you're the only person in the world that 
knows it. 

Jonas. O, no, Grimes ; you're wrong. When I suspected 
you of robbing my letters, and trapped you with my decoys, 
I took very good care to have two reputable witnesses to 
your little eccentricities. 

Grimes. O, dear! O, dear! And at my time of life, 
too. O what a villainous world this is ! 

Jonas. It is an ungrateful world, Grimes. 

Grim.es. You won' t peach on me now, will you ? 

Jonas. I didn't before, did I ? 

Grimes. No; and I've often wondered why, after taking 
so much trouble to trap me. 

Jonas. I'm a philosopher, Grimes, and you are not. I 
said to myself, here's a thorough rascal, and a clever one. 
I can send him up for ten or fifteen years, but what good 
would that do me? Now, on the other hand, the time may 
come when I can make just such a clever rascal very useful 
to me. Of course, the time hasn't come, but it might come, 
and I know that I could always rely implicitly upon the unself- 
ish devotion of my old friend Grimes. You sabe ? 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 9 

Grimes. Me sabe ! O, what a villainous world this is ! 

Jonas. By-the-way, Grimes, my lay-out came in among 
the express matter. Lay it aside for me, please. I shall 
want it to-night. [Going tip c] Good bye, Grimesey, old 
man. \_Exit Jonas l. u. e. 

Grimes. What a cold-blooded villain ! And that it should 
come to this at my time of life. And me a good Presbyterian, 
and an exp ess agent, and a civil service reform mugwump 
postmaster. O, what a villainous world this is! 
Picks up box and goes into office. Dr. M. enters from house. 

Grimes appears in window, and reads paper. 

Dr. M. The widow looks wonderfully well. It never 
struck me before, but Mrs. Stockup is a remarkably well- 
preserved specimen. It was odd about that new lead in the 
Old Sledge being sprung on the market just as we were leav- 
ing Frisco. I learned it by the merest accident. From 
Ham's peculiar affability to Mrs. S., I half suspect that he 
got the pointer, too. I hope not. It would be a terrible 
thing if that boy should make a fool of himself for a few pal- 
try thousands. Let me see now if I have these pointers 
straight. [Takes out memorandum-book, reads, .] "Red 
Jacket," " Little Giant,"— urn— urn— " Old Sledge." Ah ! 
[Sits on rustic seat L. examining memorandums. 

Grimes. [At window. ~] Eh ! what's this ? Sup lementary 
report. [Reads .] ' 4 We have just time to add that a new 
lead has been struck in the once famous Old Sledge, and 
the stock, w'uch two days ago was considered worthless, has 
jumped to fifty-five. Whew! [Dives i?iio paper. 

Dr. M. [Rising, putting book in pocket. ~\ Yes, that's 
right — perfectly straight. [See Grimes. ~\ Ah, Mr. Grimes, 
I hadn't seen you before. Good evening. 

Grimes. Same to you. [Dives into paper agai?i. 

Dr. M. You seem greatly interested, Mr. Grimes. 

Grimes. I should say so. They've struck a new lead in 
Old Sledge. 

Dr. M. [Affecting surprise.'] You don't say so. [Grabs 
paper, adjusts eye-glass, reads. ~\ Well, well! Well, I'm 
glad of it. The widow deserves it. [Aside.] There's where 
Ham got his pointer. By-the-way, Grimes, does the widow 
know of her good fortune? 

Grimes. No ; not yet. 

Dr. M. Well, now, Grimes, if I were you I wouldn't 
mention it to her — not just yet. Wait till to-morrow or the 



IO FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

next day. The sudden shock, you know — you understand. 
And Mrs. Stockup is not strong. 

Grimes. Yes, of course, she's frail. 

Dr. M. Very, very — and by-the-way, Grimes, a most es- 
timable person. 

Grimes. She is, very. I've always thought so. 

[Doctor eyes him aside. 

Dr. M. And not unattractive, Grimes, not unattractive. 

Grimes. Quite the reverse. 

Dr. M. Fine eyes, Grimes. 

Grimes. Very, very. 

Dr. M. And well preserved. 

Grimes. Very, very 

Dr. M. O, you old rascal. 
Punches Grimes ba7iteri?igly. Both laugh heartily. Grimes 

stops sudde?ily. 

Grimes. \_Aside] The mercenary old reprobate! I'll save 
her from his clutches if I have to marry her myself. \Aloud.~\ 
But, Doctor, you didn't think the widow's stock was in Old 
Sledge, did you? 

Dr. M. Why, certainly. 

Grimes. O, no; you're wrong. 

Dr. M. Eh— what ? 

Grimes. Mrs. Stockup owns the Straight Flush, and Au- 
relia the Old Sledge. 

Dr. M. O, no — no — no ! 

Grimes. O, yes — yes — yes ! 

Dr. M. Are you quite sure? 

Grimes. Certainly. I was one of the witnesses of the 
will. 

Dr. M. [Aside. ] It's astonishing that I could have made 
such a mistake. 

Grimes. {^Chuckling aside. ~\ I think I've queered his 
little game. O, what a villainous world this is ! 

Dr. M. [Aside, musi?ig.~] A remarkably fine girl that 
Aurelia. I always thought so. \_Aloud.~\ Grimes, my 
friend, I know that I can trust you. My son is in wretched 
health. Nervous system entirely broken down, owing prin- 
cipally to stock excitement. Don't discuss stocks with him 
under any circumstances. His health, his very life, depends 
upon keeping his mind off stocks entirely. I know that I 
can rely upon you. 

Grimes. Certainly, of course. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. II 

Dr. M. I knew it. Thanks! thanks! [Grasps Grimes' 
hand; then herns away L.] 

Grimes. \_Aside.~] Double distilled old hypocrite! O, 
what a villainous world this is! 

Dr. M. \_Musi?ig in seat R, corner of house. ~] A fine girl 
that Aurelia. And, after all, there is not so much difference 
in our ages. Certainly not a hundred thousand dollars 
— I mean years. 

Enter Hamilton/t^w house. 

Ham. I flatter myself, I have made an impression on 
the widow. Other things being equal, I should have pre- 
ferred the daughter ; but we must sometimes sacrifice our 
natural inclinations to a sense of duty. The news about 
Old Sledge can't be kept back very long, and I must lose 
no time, particularly as I half suspect the Governor has an 
eye to business in the same direction. [Sees Doctor.] Hello, 
Governor ! The ladies are asking for you. What did you 
run away for? 

Dr. M. [x.s. to c. Takes Hamilton's hand solemnly. ~\ 
My son, there are moments when we desire to be alone with 
our surging thoughts. The present is such a time for me. 
My son, in every father's life there comes an epoch that 
must test his devotion, his manhood, his courage, his self- 
sacrifice. The father who proves recreant at such a time, 
deserves to go down, down through the ages branded as one 
of Nature's failures. Take her, my son ; be kind to her. Strew 
the flowers of your budding affection in the pathway of her 
young life — I mean her life. Whatever my own intentions 
and desires may have been, they are as nothing when the 
happiness of my boy is at stake. Bless you both. [ Weep- 
ing x to veranda, turns, grasps Ham's ha?id.~\ Don't heed 
these foolish tears. They are tears of joy for a sacred duty 
well performed. Lose not a moment, my son. Seal the 
pledge this very night. Your future happiness demands it. 
Heed not the trifling disparity in your ages. Love levels 
the barrier of years, and the longer I look at you, the surer 
I feel that what you require is one who can be to you, not 
only a wife, but a mother. [Doctor rushes into house. 

Ham. Well, what's come over dad, I wonder? He's 
not usually given to that sort of thing. However, I am glad 
he has come to his senses and realizes his duty to his son. 
Hello, Grimes, old man! what's the news? 

Grimes. Killed another Chinaman at Red Dog last night. 



12 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Ham. Is that all? Served 'em right. 

Grimes. There don't seem to be anything wrong about 
him. 

Ham. [Takes play -book fro?n pocket.'] I found these old 
play-books in my trunk. Got them for the Amateur Society 
last winter. I'll just look over them and learn a few killing 
speeches to wring in on the widow. She's just the right age 
now for gush. 
Ham up a?idoffK. u. e. Enter from house Mrs. Stockup, 

richly dressed. 

Mrs. S. Dear me, I never saw such a change in my life. 
That old Doctor and his son have always been so wrapped 
up in themselves that they have scarcely recognized our ex- 
istence, excepting to occasionally refer to the weakness of 
the coffee and the strength of the butter. Can it be possible 
that leaving off mourning has so wonderfully improved me? 

Grimes. [At window.] Ah! the widow. [Hides paper. 

Mrs. S. O, Mr. Grimes, did you get your paper? 

Grimes. [Amiably.] No; the papers didn't get here to- 
day, somehow. 

Mrs S. That's too bad. 

Grimes. [Smirking.] You are looking "remarkably well 
to-day, Mrs. Stockup. 

Mrs. S. [Surprised^] Eh! what's that? 

Grimes. I said you were looking remarkably well to-day. 

Mrs. S. Well, here's another miracle. I never knew that 
old hedgehog to say an amiable thing before. 

Grimes. That's a gorgeous dress, Mrs. Stockup. 

Mrs S. [Aside.] That's it. It's the dress. It must be. 
Do you like it? 

Grimes. Never saw anything like it. The effect is won- 
derful. Matches so perfectly with your eyes and com- 
plexion, making a tout ensemble that — that is perfectly be- 
wildering. 

Mrs. S. Why, Mr. Grimes, I didn't know that you ever 
noticed such things. 

Grimes. If I have not said much in that line, I have done 
a great deal of thinking, Mrs. Stockup. [Hamilton enters 
u. e. and comes down l.] I knew and esteemed your late 
husband, Mrs. Stockup. [Hamilton becomes concerned^] 
But now that a year has passed, things are different. 

Mrs. S. Yes; verv different. 

Ham. [Aside.] Hello! Old Grimes must have heard the 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 13 

news. This will never do. [Aloud.~\ Good evening again, 
Mrs. Stockup. 

Mrs. S. [Timid start] Oh, Mr. Mandrake! is that you? 
How you frightened me! 

Ham. I would not have done so for the world. I see you 
are dressed for the ball. 

Mrs. S. Yes ; the musician has arrived, and all the young 
folks of the camp will soon be here. 

Ham. Remember, I claim your hand for every waltz. 

Mrs. S. What ? Why there will be a dozen young and 
pretty girls to dance with. 

Ham. I despise giddy, brainless girls. Give me — give 
me — [ Takes book hurriedly from pocket and looks at it aside. ~\ 

Grimes. Hello, now he's at it. He must have heard 
about Old Sledge, too. 

Ham. [Half reading, half speaking. ~\ 

" Let youth sing the praises of blushes, 

And thrill with the rapturous bliss 
That rises unbidden and flushes 

The brain at the thought of a kiss ; 
Give me the flash that entrances, 

The heart that was bound and is free, 
The eye with a soul in its glances : 

O, a gentle young widow for me!" 

Mrs. S. Oh, Mr. Mandrake, how beautiful. 

Ham. Do you think so ? [Puts his arm about her. 
They go toward house. ] 

Mrs. S. You must have studied that somewhere. 

Ham. O, no — no — no. 

Mrs. S. O, yes, you did. 
They exit into house, heads close together. Grimes falls 

half way out the window watching them. 

Grimes. Well of all the cases of total depravity ! There 
ought to be a law making it felony for a man to marry his 
grandmother. Poor old Stockup has been dead only a 
year, and that woman wants a husband so bad that she 
can't rest nights. [Scene gradually darkens. Jonas enters. 
He is moving toward office r., when John Oakley enters 

from house L. 

fohn. Jonas. 

fonas. Well, old man, have you come to your senses ? 

fohn. Yes, fully. Sit down, Jonas. 



14 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Jonas. Well don't keep me long. I've secured a room, 
and was just going in to get the lay out. 

John. I shall finish in five minutes, then you will be free 
to get the lay-out, and run the game alone. 

Jonas. I thought you said you had come to your senses ? 

John. Jonas Hardy, I shall never touch the cards again. 

Jonas. O, nonsense ! 

John. How long have we worked together ? 

Jonas. Six years. 

John. During that time have you ever found me guilty of 
lying or deceit, in my dealings with you ? 

Jonas. No, Jack. 

John. I was never more serious than at this moment. 
Our years of companionship entitle you to my reasons for 
my present course. 

Jonas. I can guess it. The woman is at the bottom of it. 

John. Don't compel me to remind you that the woman is 
my wife. 

Jonas. Well, don't get excited. 

John. Do I appear excited ? I was never cooler in my 
life than at this moment. That you may fully understand 
the motives that govern my present action, I must go back 
to a period some ten years preceding my acquaintance 
with you. In those days, I worked with a man named 
Moore. A born gambler, handsome, polished and utterly 
unprincipled. In Frisco he tempted a coy little school 
girl to her ruin, a crime for which I never forgave him. 
We fled the city, he taking the child (she was nothing 
more) with him. In a month he tired of her, and treated 
her shamefully ; forced her to run a roulette wheel, and 
tried to use her as a decoy. She rebelled at this, and I 
broke with him in disgust. And that very night, in my 
presence, he struck her sweet, childish face a savage blow. 
In an instant, I had stretched him at her feet. I had the 
strength of a giant in those days. He never uttered a 
sound ; the blow had broken his neck. I was tried by the 
Vigilance Committee, and acquitted in ten minutes, the 
Deputy Sheriff of the county acting as foreman. I urged 
the child to return to her home, and offered to escort her 
safely to Frisco, but she feared to meet her father. She 
was an only child, and he had cast her off, going even so far 
as to advertise her through the San Francisco press, thus 
closing the doors against reformation, and branding his own 
flesh and blood with infamy. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 15 

Jonas. That was tough. 

John. Within a week, I gave that girl my name, my 
mother's name. A name that five years before, a head- 
strong, self-willed boy, I had left behind me in a far New 
England village. 

Jonas. Then Oakley is not your name? 

John. No. As to-day I renounce the past and enter upon 
a new life, I shall take again my father's name. 

Jonas. You've been a long time making up your mind to 
become respectable. 

John. True. But during those years, a God-given agent 
has been silently at work. One year from the day upon 
which I gave that girl my name, she brought to me an angel 
to perpetuate and finally rescue that name from infamy. 

Jonas. This is a new one on me. 

John. It would be news to all who know me, and I tell 
you now, only because I feel it my duty to give you my rea- 
sons for severing our relations, to assure you that I am gov- 
erned by no motives personal or in any way inimical to you. 
I was dealing at the old Golden Eagle, in Sacramento, when 
the little one came. I was scarcely more than a boy myself, 
and Mabel a mere child ; still, we did what we thought for 
the best. She would not be separated from me, and we both 
realized the injustice of rearing a daughter amid our surround- 
ings, particularly as the mother's misfortune was still being 
constantly referred to by the press ; and so, after a desperate 
struggle, Mabel consented to place the little one in a con- 
vent, to be reared and educated, and we started on our 
vagabond lives again. 

Jonas. How long ago was that ? 

John. Just sixteen years. 

Jonas. [ Whistles. ~\ Why, she's a young woman now. 

John. She's more than a woman, Jo. She's an angel. 

Jonas. Yes ; they all are, at sixteen ; but they outgrow it. 
Have you seen her often ? 

John. No. Mabel, with all her longing, has dreaded the 
meeting, fearing that it might in some mysterious way result 
in our estrangement. We had not seen her since her infancy, 
until our trip to Frisco this month. 

Jonas. I knew something had happened to you then. 
You've been good for nothing since. Did she seem pleased 
to meet you ? 

John. She did not see us. We only saw her in a pro- 



l6 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

cession entering the convent gate. She was such a perfect 
image of her mother that there was no mistaking her; but 
we did not make ourselves known. 

Jonas. I seem to remember about that Moore affair. Over 
about Nevada City, wasn't it ? 

[John signifies yes. ~\ 

Jonas. Let's see; what was the girl's family name? 

John. Carrollton. 

Jonas. Carrollton. Yes ; that's it — I remember. And 
the old man was very rich and high-strung. Well, John, 
old man, you've kept your secret well. 

John. My business has taught me that. 

Jojias. And so we break, eh ? 

John. Yes, Jo. 

Jonas. What are you going to do ? 

John. I don't know exactly, but something to provide an 
honest home for my wife and child. 

Jonas. We've been playing in big luck for a year now, 
and you've been very economical. You must have a good 
stake, eh? 

John. I have a few thousand in Frisco. 

Jonas. I thought so. Then you won't mind squaring that 
Gold Run nonsense of yours ? 

John. Square it! What do you mean ? 

Jonas. Well, you know I never approved of your course 
in that young Waldaur affair. 

John. Jonas, I'm ashamed of you. That poor boy was 
scarcely eighteen years old — a mere child. He blew in his 
last dollar against our game — nearly a thousand in all. 
Then he drew from his pocket a certificate of a half owner- 
ship in the White Crow mine, and blew in that. 

Jonas. Yes ; and then he went outside the door and blew 
out his brains. 

John. And in his pocket I found a loving mother's letter 
from a far Southern home, urging him to return, as his 
father was dangerously ill, and had forgiven all. I gave the 
lad a Christian burial, and sent his mother a letter breaking 
it to her as gently as I could. 

Jonas. But you were not content with sending the letter: 
you sent the White Crow certificate as well. 

John. And what then? 

Jonas. What then ? You sent it against my expressed 
wishes. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 17 

John. And did I not silence your opposition by paying- you 
twelve hundred dollars, your half of the full face-value of the 
certificate. 

Jonas. Yes ; and six weeks later, that mine was worth five 
million dollars. 

John. I know it, yet I have never regretted the act. 

Jonas. Well, I have never ceased to regret it. 

John. Jonas Hardy, I'm ashamed of you. And I despise 
myself to think that I could work with you so long and not 
discover how little manhood there is in you. 

Jonas. So you won't divey. 

John. \_ Jumping up a?id x-ing.'] You talk like a child. 

Jonas. Possibly I do. I suppose we're made of different 
material. You were born and educated a gentleman, and 
became a gambler through force of circumstances. Well, I 
wasn't. I was born a gambler, and I follow it from 
instinct and inclination, and I expect to live on velvet and 
die in my boots, like the rest of the tribe. But as long as 
I'm playing the game of life, I'll never throw away a trick, 
while the cards are coming my way. 

Joh?i. Well, Jonas, bunch the deck and begin a new deal ;; 
but count me out. \_Going ttp c] And as long as you deal, 
old fellow, I hope the cards may always come your way. 

[Exit John, r. u. E. 

Jonas. I've felt this thing coming. John Oakley is the 
cleverest man on the coast, and its a great pity to lose such 
talent. Still, it might be worse. The woman might have 
blabbed, and then — whew ! After all, I guess it's better as it is. 
[Looks cautiously about stage, then enters office door r. 
Enter Jrom house, Aurelia in ball dress, Jollowed by Dr. 

Mandrake. 

Aurelia. Now Doctor, you mus'nt expect me to dance 
with you every set. What will people think ? 

Dr. What can they think, but that Dr. Mandrake is a 
man of taste. You certainly waltz divinely. 

Au. Do you think so? 

Dr. Can you doubt my sincerity ? 

Au. Why, Doctor, at our last Fourth of July ball you 
didn't even offer to dance once with me. 

Dr. And you noticed it? It was my natural timidity. 
While other and more attractive swains were fluttering in 
your train, I stood aloof and gazed in silent envy. But to- 
night I have grown more bold, and dare to offer you that. 



l8 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

homage, which your beauty, and my long concealed passion, 
entitle you to receive. 

An. Why, Doctor, that sounds like a declaration. 

Dr. It was — was intended to sound that way. 

Au. But, Doctor, this is so sudden. 

Dr. Yes, I know, women always say that — O, no, no, I 
don't mean that, but — but. 'Love's not a flower that grows 
in the dull earth ; must wait for time to stem, to leaf, to bud, 
to blow ; love owns a richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed; 
you look for it, see it not, and lo ! e'en while you gaze, the 
peerless flower is up, consummate in its birth." \_Aside.~\ 
I got that out of one of Ham's play books. 

Au. Does San Francisco always affect you that way, 
Doctor ? 

Dr. Now don't be cruel. You wrong me. I have arrived 
at a period when men are not affected by each transient 
breeze, nor won by every pretty face or fleeting fancy. No 
boyish frivolity, no youthful dreams, but in the full fruition 
of man's ripened powers. You can not misunderstand me 
now. 

Au. Of course not, its perfectly plain, But you will 
allow me to be a little surprised — I never saw you the least 
inclined to sentiment but once. 

Dr. And when was that? 

Au. About six months ago when you became so suddenly 
attentive to mamma, and old Grimes said it was because 
some practical joker started the report that Old Sledge stock 
had been quoted at forty in Frisco. 

Dr. Base fabrication. Why the idea is absurd upon its 
face. Had I been that mercenary wretch, I would naturally 
have — have paid my devotions to yourself, the owner of the 
stock. 

Au. To me? Why I don't own any Old Sledge stock. 

Dr. What's that? 

Au. Why my stock is in the Straight Flush, mamma 
owns the Old Sledge. 

Dr. I beg pardon, will you kindly repeat that last 
observation ? 

Au. I say mamma owns the Old Sledge stock. 

Dr. \Aside.^\ Whew! that was a narrow escape for me. 
That old reprobate Grimes, has been indulging in another 
bit of pleasantry ; I thought I couldn't have made such a 
blunder as that 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 19 

Au. You seem surprised, Doctor. 

Dr. O, no, not at all. It is of course, a matter of the 
oitmost indifference to me. 

Au. [Aside.~\ I may as well make the best of this oppor- 
tunity for a flirtation — I don't get them often. But, Doctor, 
to return to your sudden passion. 

Dr. \_Stiffly.~] Pardon me, Miss Stockup. You have cru- 
♦elly touched me in a tender poiut. The insinuation that a 
trifling fluctuation in Old Sledge could have inspired those 
•delicate attentions which every gentleman owes to every 
lady, and which, I trust, I shall never so far forget myself as to 
withhold — that bare insinuation has left a wound that only 
time can heal. 

Ate. O, Doctor, please forgive me. I wouldn't have 
-wronged you for the world. 

Dr. Enough. I pardon the thoughtless jest. But I must 
.^seek the giddy scene of mirth, music and frivolity to banish 
the painful memory. 

Au. Certainly, Doctor ; and I'll waltz with you, to prove 
that I have no malice; and you can say as many nice things to 
me as you like. 

Dr. Ah, the mazy whirl begins again! Let me fly to join 
the mad revellers. 

Au. [Hanging on to him ] Certainly, Doctor, dear ; let us 
iiy. Oh, Doctor! there's my mandolin. Please bring it in 
The dew will ruin it. 

Dr. O, blow the mandolin ! 

Au. You can't blow it. You have to pick it. 

Dr. Well, I'll send a Chinaman out for it. 
They exit i?ito house, Doctor tryi?ig to escape, Aurelia hang- 

i?ig 07t to him. Grimes appears in window i7i time to see 

them off, hanging out as before. 

Grimes. What a villainous world this is! If Old Sledge 
and Straight Flush keep fluctuating, that old reprobate will 
be his own son's stepson, and the old woman will be step- 
mother and mother-in-law to her own daughter. 

[Dance ?nusic in house. 
Joxas appears in window beside Grimes. 

Jonas. Grimes, why don't you go in and have a dance? 

Grimes. Wasn't invited. 

Jojias. Nonsense! You're too modest, Grimes. As 
postmaster you're a privileged character. 

Grimes. I've got your lay out there. Do you want it ? 



20 FROM SIRE TO SON ; OR, 

Jonas. No, I shan't open the game to-night. [Grimes is- 
readi?ig paper by candle light.~] Anything new in the paper, 
Grimes ? 

Grimes. Not much. I see the Vigilantes have hung some 
more Chinamen and gamblers over in Virginia City last 
week. 

Jonas. Served 'em right. Down with competition. 

Grimes. O, what a villainous world this is! 

Jonas. [Picking up large revolver^ This is an ugly-look- 
ing customer, Grimes. 

Grimes. Yes; it's intended for use on ugly-looking cus- 
tomers. 

Jonas. Carries a big chunk of lead, don't it? 

Grimes. Biggest in camp. Sixteen of 'em make a pound. 

Jonas. Grimes, have you ever killed a man ? 
Grimes. No. Have you ? 

Jonas. Not yet. 

Grimes. O, what a villainous world this is! 

Jonas. Then you don't have much use for this? 

Grimes. No. Hasn't been shot since I had it. 
Jonas takes paper out oj Grimes' hand and lays down pistol. 

Jonas. Don't mind me, Grimes. Go on with your work. 
I'll read a few minutes, and then go in and see if I can catch 
a girl for a dance. 

Grimes disappears from window* 

Jonas. Hello! what's this? \_Reads.~] ''Last sad chapter 
in the Carrollton romance : Death of Daniel Carrollton. 
The recent death of our esteemed citizen, Daniel Carrollton, 
and the pathetic incidents preceding his demise have revived 
interest in the almost forgotten story of his daughter 
Mabel's ruin by the gambler Moore, and her subsequent 
flight with her betrayer, and appearance in the gambling 
rooms of the up-country mining camps. Some years since, 
Mr. Carrollton received a letter from his daughter, inform- 
ing him that her betrayer was dead, and that she was the wife 
of an honest man. She did not seek forgiveness for herself, 
but said she had born her husband a daughter, and that the 
child had been placed in the Convent of the Sacred Heart, 
where her future would be amply provided for. She gave 
the child's name as Mabel Armitage. She asked nothing 
for herself, but urged her father to go at least once before 
his death and see Aat tiny image of herself. She knew that 
they could never n eet again on earth, but she fondly hoped 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 21 

the sight of that baby face might soften the iron in his nature, 
and banish at least a little of the bitterness and anger from 
his heart before either of them should be called to judg- 
ment. Mr. Carrollton remained obdurate until shortly be- 
fore his death. When he realized that his days were num- 
bered, in company with his legal adviser, he drove to the 
convent and saw, for the first time, his grandchild, a lovely 
girl of fifteen, and the living image of his daughter as she 
left her home. The scene is described as a most pathetic 
one. He immediately returned home, destroyed the will in 
which he had bequeathed his great wealth to local charities, 
and before he slept that night, his attorney had drawn, and 
he had signed, a will, leaving all of his millions to his 
daughter's child, in trust to the surviving parent. A few 
hours after signing this document he passed away. The 
attorneys are now advertising for the parents, who, as soon 
as their identity is established, will step into a snug three 
millions." 

Jonas gives a long whistle. 
Jonas. Now I understand the change. And he lied to 
me. Said he didn't know what he was going to do. I 
suppose he was afraid I might strike him for a big stake. 
Hello! here's the lawyer's ad. : \Reads^\ "Information is 
wanted of the present whereabouts of Allred Armitage and 
his wife, Mabel Armitage, parents of Mabel Armitage, now 
and for some years an inmate of the Convent of the Sacred 
Heart, this city. When last heard from, one month ago, 
they were at or near the mining camp of Dutch Flat. Address 
Savage & Slaughter, Attorneys-at-law, San Francisco." 
Three million dollars! Whew! And he said to-night that 
the child had never seen them. 

Stage darkened and strong moonlight on. A solitary 
fiddle in house is heard faintly playing old-fashioned dance 
tunes. Mabel enters from house. Jonas sees her, and 
quietly draws back, closing window. A hearty laugh in- 
side house as Mabel comes out. 

Mabel. I wonder where John can be? I promised him 
that I would go to sleep, but I couldn't. The sound of 
music and merry laughter below seems such a mockery to 
me. Poor, dear John ! I try so hard not to let him see 
that I am miserable, but nothing escapes his quick eye. 
\Sits on rustic seat L. Picks up mandolin.^ John's favor- 
ite. Dear John! I haven't sung a note for him since — 



22 FROM SIRE TO SON ; OR, 

since we saw — [She breaks down and weeps. ~\ O, dearE 
I wish I could shake off these gloomy fits. But since I saw 
my darling's face at the convent gate, I seem a changed 
being. I cannot bear for John to be from my side an in- 
stant, and every minute that I am alone, I am filled with the 
most gloomy forebodings. John assured me that he was 
not going to play to-night, so he can't be far away. 
She sings a verse of ' ' Home, Sweet Home, ' ' accompanying 

herself with mandolin. John enters at back, steals down 

behind her. With last notes of song, she bends weeping 

over the mandolin. John gently leans over, takes her 
face between his hands, bends back her head and kisses 

her. 

John. [Cheerfully .] Bless your dear, sweet face! You 
know how to bring the truant back, don't you? That's the 
first note I've heard in many days. 

Mabel. I haven't been a very gleeful companion of late, 
have I, John ? 

John. That's natural enough, girl. But within a week I 
shall see the old, sweet smile come back, never to be 
banished again. 

Mabel. O, I hope so, John dear. 

John. I know so, sweet-heart. But I had hoped you 
were sound asleep long ago. 

Mabel. I thought to be so, but I found it impossible to 
rest. 

John. Ah, true, they're having a dance to-night 

Mabel. And as I could not sleep, I stole out into the 
moonlight, to watch for you. 

John. [Pleasantly, .] "He cometh not, she said." But 
how well she knew the magic spell that would bring him to- 
ner side. [Kisses her.~\ Why there's a smile! The first in 
two days. 

Mabel. John dear, don't be angry with me, I never ask 
any questions about your business, for as long as I hdcveyou, 
I care for nothing else, but when you left me, you said you 
were going to have a serious talk with Jonas Hardy, and 
there seemed to me to be a something in your manner that 
half alarmed me. Tell me, John, you haven't quarreled 
with that man, have you ? 

John. Why no, of course not ; but I have broken off all 
our business relations. We work together no more. 

Mabel. [Earnestly.^ O, I'm so glad of that. 

[ Widoiv R. opens and Jonas' face appears.. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 23 

John. Are you, why ? 

Mabel. John dear, as long as you were friends and work- 
ing together, I would never breathe a word to cause you 
trouble or distress, but now that all is at an end between 
you, there can be no harm in saying — now, don't be angry, 
John, but you are well rid of Jonas Hardy. He was never 
your friend. 

John. [Jumps tip savagely, puts hand to pistol-pocket.^ 
O, no ! no ! You don't mean to say that he has dared — to 
—the dog!— I'll— I 

Mabel. John ! John ! What would you do ? Risk your 
life on such a creature ? Think of your wife ! Think of our 
child ! 
John stands, staring wildly, his jaws working convulsively ', 

Mabel, terrified, clinging to him, and looking into his 

Jace. 

Jonas. [In window. ~\ She has said it at last. I didn't 
believe she would ever do it. He's a quicker shot than I 
am. I'll take no chances with him. 

[Jonas disappears, closing window. 

Mabel. John! John! Look at me! Speak to me! What's 
the matter, darling, can't you speak ? 
John makes several attempts to speak, without avail, finally 

makes a sound, and then speaks. 

John. [At first with great difficulty^ O, my wife — I — 
suffered ten thousand deaths in that one moment's loss of 
speech. 

Mabel. Loss of speech ? 

John. Yes, child, could you not see it? O, my God I 
the curse has descended from Sire to Son. It is my punish- 
ment ! It is my fate ! 

John sinks into seat, Mabel at his Jeet. 

Mabel. John, John, tell me, dear, what does it mean. 

John. Forgive me child, for frightening you so. But in 
that speechless instant the panorama of my life passed with 
the speed of lightening through the vision of my mind. 
The faults, the follies, the grievous errors of two score years, 
were crowded into that voiceless pause. 

Mabel. John darling, your face was terrible to look at, 
but now you are yourself again. 

John. Yes, wife, it's gone ; and with it the mad resolve that 
brought it on. Have no fear, girl, that minute of agony has 
made me realize more fully than ever my duty to you, and to 
our child. 



24 FROM SIRE TO SON J OR, 

Mabel. What did you mean, John, by saying the curse 
had descended from sire to son ? 

John. You shall hear : My father was a man of violent, 
ungovernable temper, and an iron will. Once I angered him 
beyond endurance, and, in a fit of terrible rage, he struck 
me a savage blow. He raised his voice in an angry curse, 
and, in an instant, stood transfixed, a picture of terror, unable 
to utter a sound. He was speechless for a year, though in 
perfect health. During that time, he conceived a violent 
antipathy to me. I felt it, and resolved to leave my home. 
This seemed to anger him still more, and in a fit of rage, he 
one day again raised his arm to strike me. I warned him 
that I was no longer a child, but a man ; that I had borne his 
first outrage, but would not endure a second. The warning 
was unheeded, and our blows descended together. He fell 
prostrate, but the terrible shock restored his voice, and the 
first use he made of it was to drive me from his door. 

Mabel. Poor, dear John. And your childhood, like my 
own, is clouded with the memory of a father's curse. Why 
have you never told me this story before, John ? 

John. Your own sorrowful memories were enough for you 
to bear, why should I afflict you with mine ? Besides, my 
expulsion was but a disguised blessing, for did it not bring 
me to you ? 

Mabel. And it brought you but a sorry companionship, 
John. 

John. No, Mabel, it brought me seventeen years of perfect 
married felicity. It brought me an honest woman's unselfish 
love, the earthly crown God gives alike to the ingrate and 
the just. 

Mable. And in all these years, have you never once re- 
gretted the step you took in giving the poor outcast child 
your mother's name? 

John. If such a thought ever for a moment crept half-way 
into my mind, when the baby image of our two selves was 
laid upon your breast, it sanctified your life, and banished 
forever the coward phantom of distrust. 

Mabel. [ Weeping on John's breast.~\ Oh, I am so happy 
— so happy ! 

John. Poor child. Poor child ! 

Mabel. And now, John dear, since we are to turn our 
backs upon the past, what are you going to do ? 

John. I am going to do my whole duty to my daughter, 
and to her patient, long-suffering mother. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 25 

Mabel. You have always done that, and more, John. 

John. No child, no. I realize it now. Your father has 
passed away, without expressing a wish, as far as we can 
learn, to see or hear either from yourself or your child. We 
must not accuse him. He has passed to a higher judgmens 
than ours. My letter of contrition to my father remaint 
unanswered, too, and so we are now more than ever each 
other's. 

Mabel. Have you thought of the future, John? 

John. Yes, and provided for it. [ Window r opens and 
Jonas' Jace appears, listening^ Do you remember a night, 
seven years ago, out at Virginia City, when a wild, desper- 
ate-looking fellow came staggering into our room, and see- 
ing you, apologized in his drunken, clumsy way, and called 
me outside ? 

Mabel. O, yes ; right well. I remember how I was 
frightened. I thought he had come to kill you, until you 
assured me that he was an old friend. 

John. He was an old prospector whom I had frequently 
staked. He claimed that I had twice saved his life. That 
night he placed in my hand a package, securely sealed, 
with the injunction to retain it until he should call for it; 
but should I at any time learn of his death, I was to open 
the package. Within a week the poor fellow was killed in 
a brawl. Upon opening the package, I found a few lines 
addressed to myself, saying that with my last stake himself 
and partner had struck a rich lead over near North San 
Juan. He enclosed to me a receipt in full for his half owner- 
ship in the lead. I knew the partner well, and when he 
came up to help me bury the poor fellow, he gave me ten 
thousand dollars net cash for my half interest. 

Mabel. Why, John! it was quite a little fortune, wasn't 
it? 

John. Yes, girl, it was; and that very day I started that 
money to San Francisco. It is to-day in Wells-Fargo's 
bank, deposited in our daughter's name, in trust to our- 
selves. The certificate of deposit is among my other val- 
uable papers and letters in the sole-leather bag which we 
have guarded so carefully. 

Jonas has listened attentively, his Jace betraying great in- 
terest. He now withdraws, closing the window. 

Mabel. How good and thoughtful of you, John ! Why, it 
is enough to give you a good start in an hon — I mean, in 
.some other business, isn't it? 



26 FROM SIRE TO SON ; OR, 

John. Yes, Mabel. If you are strong enough, we will 
take the coach to-morrow. Within a week you shall hold 
your daughter in your arms. The first steamer shall bear 
us to some quiet retreat in the Far East, where, forgetting 
and forgot, we will build a new Arcadia, people it with 
domestic gods, and there, in the sacred atmosphere of 
home, devote the remainder of our lives to each other, and 
to our child. 

Mabel. [In John's arms.] Oh, John, my darling hus- 
band, this hour of blessed promise repays me for the loss of 
home, father, reputation, all. 

John. [Kissing her. ] Come, sweetheart ; the dew is fall- 
ing. Let us retire, and to-morrow's dawn shall usher in for 
us a new and brighter life. In that sweet consciousness we 
will [they rise and move R. to c] to-night sleep the sleep of 
the just. 

They turn up c. John's left arm is around Mabel's 
shoulders. The window ^.partially opens, and a flash is 
see7i and pistol fired. Mabel falls r. c, with a groan. 
John's left arm is broke?i by the same ball a?zd falls at his 
side. He draws quickly and fires two shots in the direc- 
tion of the window. Then a second shot comes from win- 
dozu, and John's right arm falls broken, pistol dropping. 
He is reeling. Mabel struggles to her feet, falls upon 
John's neck, kisses him, and they fall c. together, Mabel. 
across John's body. Window r. closes. Stage rapidly 
fills with people coming from all directions, some zuith lan- 
terns. Lights up. Mi?iers, Gamblers. Chinamen, &c. 
From the house, the guests rush out in their ball dresses. 
There is a general cry of l ' Murder /' ' as characters rush 
on. Dr. Mandrake goes to bodies c. / also Hamilton 
and Mrs.Stockup<2;z^Aurelia. Jonas passes in back- 
ground and exit L. 3 E. 

Dr. M. [c. kneeling over John.]. A terrible tragedy has 
been enacted here within the very sounds of our revelry. 
Quick, men ! See that no man leaves the camp. 

[ Two or three men run off L. and R. 
Hamilton. [Picking up John's revolver \] Here's a re- 
volver with two chambers empty and still warm. 
Dr. Keep it! Let no man touch it! 

Aurelia. [Bending over Mabel. ] See! mamna, see! It 
is the sweet-faced lady from number five. 

Mrs. S. [Lifting Mabel's head.'] Poor soul! she is 
dead. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 27 

A general surprised exclamation of ' ' dead P ' and the crozvd 

sways a little towards Mabel's body r. c. Jonas Hardy 

enters from hotel R. bare-headed, with dressing-gown o?i, 

as though coming from his room. 

fonas. \_Coming down L.] What's the matter? 

Dr. M. A man and woman have been murdered. 

fonas. Murdered ! 

Hamilton. Yes! Who were they? You should know. 
You were their traveling companion. 

fonas. \_Crosses right and looks at John and exclaims^] 
Jonas Hardy ! [Bends over Mabel and exclaims. ~] Mabel, 
my poor wife! 

\_General exclamation.] Your wife! 

fonas. Yes, friends, this poor, unfortunate creature was 
my wife. To-night she confessed to me that she had been 
unfaithful to me with this man, and, in a fit of jealous rage, 
her paramour has murdered her and taken his own life. 
Poor Mabel! Poor child! 

[Jonas crosses back to l. cor. John is struggling. 

Dr. You are mistaken, sir. The man is not dead. 

fonas. [And all.] Not dead ! 

John trying to rise. 

Dr. And what is your name, sir? 

fonas. My name is Alfred Armitage. 
John staggers to his feet, looks savagely at Jonas, tries des- 
perately but vainly to speak. His jaw drops, and he sinks 

fainting c. 

Dr. Both arms are shattered, and his tongue seems para- 
lyzed. 

Hamilton. Poor fellow ! He will never speak again. 

fonas. [l. Cor. , half aside] He will never speak again. 

Dr. [ Who is carefully examining John's body.] Don't 
be too sure of that. 
Dr. and Hamilton over John's body. c. Mrs. S. and 

Aurelia supporting Mabel's body, r. c. Background 

filled with people. Some on hotel balcony looking down.. 

Curtain. 



ACT II. 

The mai?i room in the Yuba Hotel. It is supposed to be the 
room entei r ed from the veranda in Act i. Large open 
door c. and large open window in r. and l. flats ope?iing 
onto the veranda, as seen in first act. Across the road, seen 
through the open windows a?id door c. , is the Post Office 
and express office, as see?i in first act. Characters enter- 
ing a?id leaving the room ascend and descend two steps 
upon reaching or leaving the veranda. This can only be 
worked where there is full width sinking scene-trap to drop, 
so that characters, aj c ter pas sing out onto veranda, step down 
two steps into trap , and then walk off "r. or L. on that level. 
Scene is boxed with door r. 2 E. The room is comfort- 
ably furnished with plain, old-fashioned fur?iiture. 
At rise of curtain Job Cadwalader enters up steps onto 
veranda and into room c. d. He is a large, powerful 
man, full beard, high boots. Pistol belt shows, in which 
he wears a pair of heavy revolvers, which are not exposed, 
however. Mexican spurs, wide hat — a typical Western 
Sheriff. 

Cad. Anybody live here ? The ranch seems to be run- 
ning itself to-day. 

Aurelia and Hamilton enter from veranda c. Aurelia 
has a bouquet of roses in her ha?id ; Hamilton has let- 
ters. 

Aurelia. Why, there's the Sheriff. I wonder who he's 
after. 

Ham. Good morning, Sheriff. Anything new? 
Cad. That's just what I've come to find out. How is the 
sick prisoner ? 

Au. Ever so much better in general strength, but still 
speechless. 

Ham. Haven't you seen my father? 

Cad. No. Please tell him I'm here, will you ? 

Au. I'll tell him. Excuse me. 

[Aurelia runs off r. 2 e. 

(28) 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 29. 

Cad. Lively gal, that. 

Ham. Yes ; rather. She wanted an excuse to get in 
there. She has been gathering some flowers for the sick- 
room. 

Cad. Not much satisfaction in that, I should think, when 
the man can't even thank her. 

Ham. O, yes, he can. 

Cad. How? 

Ham. With his eyes. They are wonderfully eloquent at 
times. Leave a woman alone to read that language. 

Cad. Yes, I suppose so. Never studied it much myself. 
So you are going to appear for the prisoner, eh ? 

Ham. Yes, I am. I don't get a client very often ; don't 
suppose I would have got this if he hadn't been dumb ; but 
I've got him, and I propose to stick to him. 

Cad. Unless he dies on your hands, as your last one did. 

Ham. No fear of that. I have had only two clients since 
I became a member of the Bar, and before I could get either 
of them into court and get a fee out of them, that self-con- 
stituted Judge and jury — the Vigilance Committee — took 
them out and hung them. 

Cad. Well, that was discouraging. 

Ham. I should say so. But this is a very different kind 
of a man from the others. He has the face and bearing of 
a gentleman. There's some terrible mystery connected 
with the case. I'm genuinely interested, and I shall stick 
to him and see that he has a square deal, whether I get a 
cent out of it or not. 

Cad. Good for you! 

Enter Doctor M. r. 2 e. 

Dr. Good morning, Sheriff. 

Cad. Same to yourself, Doctor. 

Hamilton. Excuse me while I look over my mail. 

\_Goes out onto veranda, and disappears '„ 

Cad. How's your patient, Doctor? 

Dr. Wonderfully improved. He has a will of iron, and 
nerves like steel. 

Cad. Hasn't spoken yet? 

Dr. Not a word. You got my message ? 

Cad. Yes. I was just going over to Cherry Creek, when 
I met the Chinaman. What's up ? 

Dr. You yesterday removed the deputy whom you had 
placed here to see that my patient did not escape. 



30 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Cad. Yes, Doc. I had to send him over to French Cor- 
rall to look after some claim jumpers. 

Dr. Well, Sheriff, while I appreciate the confidence, 
you repose in me in trusting the prisoner to my honor, I 
should at this same time greatly prefer to have a represen- 
tative of the law on the spot. 

Cad. Anything new developed? 

Dr. Nothing definite. But there is an ugly element in 
this camp, and they are being quietly urged on by some o?ie. 
They think it's time somebody was hung. I have had one 
or two little tilts with them over at the express office already. 
We've got some strong circumstancial evidence in this 
.man's favor, and I don't propose to have him killed like a 
dog, without a hearing. 

Cad. O, I see. Then you want a special deputy? 

Dr. Yes. And I want to be that deputy myself. 

Cad. That's a good idea, Doc. [Cad. sits at table, takes 
. blanks from his pocket and writes out commission. Writing. ] 
Got some circumstantial evidence, eh? 

Dr. Yes, and something substantial. That boy of mine 
has been working like a lion, or rather, like a ferret. 

Cad. Glad to hear it. Never heard anything about the 
companion, Armitage, yet ? 

Dr. Not a word — worse luck. 

Cad. It was a very stupid piece of business on somebody's 
part, allowing that man to leave the camp. He should have 
teen detained as a witness. 

Dr. I know it. That's the one great blunder we have 
made. You have never seen my patient, have you, Sher- 
iff? 

Cad. No, I believe not. 

Dr. Come in and have a look at him before you go. 

Cad. Haven't time just now. I guess my broncho has 
had a rubbing down by this time, I'll run on down to the 
Creek. Here's your commission. The prisoner is yours, 
and I hold you responsible for his appearance at any hour. 

Dr. When the hour comes, the man shall be there. 

Cad. Good. 

Dr. What's up at the Creek? 

Cad. They had a little shooting bee over there last night. 
One of my men got a slug in his thigh. I'm going over to 
increase the force of deputies. So long, Doc, [Goes out on 
to veranda^ I'll drop in on my way back, and have a look 
at your man. [Exit down steps and off. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 31 

Dr. This day is big with fate for us. How that poor, 
speechless fellow wants to write! I have promised him that 
I would to-day remove the splints, and place pencil and 
paper before him. I think I can do so to-day with safety. 

[Enter Mrs. S. r. 2. e. 

Mrs. S. O, Doctor, the invalid looks ever so much 
brighter to-day, don't he? I suppose it's because you have 
promised to take those horrible boards off of his arms, isn't 
it, Doctor? 

Dr. Very likely. O, you cruel, cruel thing. Why, will 
you always call me "Doctor"? Am I never to hear you call 
me Marmaduke ? 

Mrs. S. It's so terribly long, Doctor. 

Dr. It is, I know, but your sweet voice would lend to it 
a musical cadence. 

Mrs. S. Well, I'll try, Doctor, for your sake. 

Dr. Ah, thanks, thanks, Amanda, dear. 

[Kisses her hand. 

Mrs. S. \_Aside.~] The old hypocrite! I'll marry him, just 
to revenge myself on him, but I'll worry him all I can first. 

Dr. By the way, Amanda, dear, I see Old Sledge is now 
quoted above par. 

Mrs. S. Really! Did you see that? 

Dr. By the merest accident. No, on second thoughts, I 
didn't see it. Think I must have heard some one mention 
it. 

Mrs. S. [Aside. ~\ What a terrible old liar he is. That 
stock haunts him day and night. [Aloud.~\ Doctor, I mean 
Marmaduke. 

Dr. Ah, that's better. 

Mrs. S. Do you know old Grimes has been telling every- 
body that you never thought of marrying me until the rise 
in Old Sledge ? 

Dr. Has he dared ! The sordid, jealous, viper ! But 
you know it to be a base calumny, do you not, Amanda, 
dear ? 

Mrs. S. Well, it did look just a little that way at one 
time. [Hamilton entres c. sta?ids listening.^ 

Dr. Possibly. But, dearest Amanda, there are moments 
when we are compelled to conceal our great emotions, to 
wrestle, as it were, with those natural instincts that struggle 
with us for the mastery. Such a struggle was mine when I 
fancied that my son, my dearly loved son, had resolved to 



32 FROM SIRE TO SON ; OR, 

make you his. The struggle between love and paternal 1 
duty was a hard one, and so, for a time, I concealed my 
great emotions ; not that I love Ceasar — no, no, not that 
I loved Amanda less, but that I loved Ham more. 

Mrs. S. I'm so glad of that. It's sweet to know that we 
are loved for ourselves alone. 

Dr. And far sweeter to know, that the object of one's 
love has been endowed by nature with those endearing: 
charms of mind and person that make her worthy our un- 
selfish devotion. 

Mrs. S. And, Marmaduke dear, you will ever be true to 
me? 

Dr. Amanda, there are moments when 

Mrs. S. Marmaduke! [Indignantly .] 

Dr. [Quickly.^ Don't misunderstand me. There are 
moments when one feels the need of sweet companionship 
and tender consolation, and the man who, at such a moment, 
would seek that companionship elsewhere than in the bosom 
of his family, were a wretch whom it were gross flattery to- 
name a coward. 

Airs. S. Oh, Marmaduke, dear, you talk just like a stage 
lover. 

Dr. Do I ? [Aside. ~\ That's very strange. 

Mrs. S. I'm so glad to know that your affection for me is 
so pure and unselfish, for then I know you won't be angry 
when I tell you that I have signed all of my Old Sledge 
stock over to Aurelia. 

Dr. I beg pardon, will you kindly repeat that last re- 
mark? 

Mrs. S. Certainly : I said, that, as you had so often as- 
sured me that you loved me for myself alone, I knew you 
would want to provide me with a home of your own, and so 
I gave all of my stock to Aurelia. 
Hamilton has been listening with great concern during 

this portio7i of scene, now explodes with suppressed 

laughter, and rushes into door R. 2 E. 

Mrs. S. Why, Marmaduke dear, you seem troubled. 

Dr. Mrs. Stockup, there are moments when we desire to- 
be alone with our surging thoughts. I have no desire to 
cause you unnecessary pain, but the general tenor of your 
recent conversation has wounded me deeply. There was a 
latent-looking insinuation in your tone that the mere fluc- 
tuations of Old Sledge stock had inspired those delicate at- 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 33 

tentions which every gentleman owes to every lady, and 
which I trust I shall never so far forget myself, as to with- 
hold. You will pardon me, Mrs. Stockup, but I think I 
heard my patient calling. 

Mrs. S. Why, Doctor, your patient can't utter a sound. 

Dr. [Drawing himself together. ,] Possibly not, in that 
broader, and more worldly language of common minds, but 
there are moments when — No, no ! there is a silent lan- 
guage of eloquent sympathy, between the true physician 
and his suffering patient, which only the elect can hear. 

[Exit Dr. M. proudly r. 2 e. 

Mrs. S. Miserable old hypocrite ! and the son is just as 
bad. But I half like the old schemer. There's lots of good 
in him. His devotion to this poor, unknown man, is per- 
fectly sublime. Now, I dare say, that with careful training, 
and proper government, he would make a very respectable 
sort of a husband ; in the absence of a better. 

[Starts r. enter Grimes c. 

Grimes. Ah, there she is. [Calls.] Mrs. Stockup! 

[She turns. 

Mrs. S. Well, I wonder what that old hedgehog wants ! 

Grimes. [Grinning.] Lovely day, Mrs. Stockup. 

Mrs. S. Is it ? I haven' t been out to see. 

Grimes. Is it possible ! Busy I suppose, wondering how 
you can spend all of your wealth, and building castles in 
Spain. 

Mrs. S. No, sir. I've been busy building raspberry jam 
and roasting a pig. 

Grimes. Dear me, what a drop ! From castles in Spain 
to roast shoat. Mrs. Stockup, you do yourself a great in- 
justice — you do, indeed ! You were born to shine in a 
higher sphere — to live a more ideal existence. 

Mrs. S. Mr. Grimes, if I were you, I wouldn't soar into 
the ideal. It's not becoming to your style of beauty. 

Grimes. [Aside.'] It's no use; she won't have it. I'm 
sorry I tried it now. [Aloud.] How is your friend, the 
murd — I mean the invalid ? 

Mrs. S. You had better ask his doctor. 

[Exit Mrs. S. stiffly r. 2 e. 

Grimes. I hate that old cat — always did. She's flying 
high since Old Sledge went up to a hundred and ten. I 
suppose she'll marry old Sawbones now. I hope so. I 
always did hate that man. O, what a villainous world this 



34 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

is ! I'd like to find out why nothing is done about that fel- 
low. That woman has been buried a month, and no one 
hung yet. The camp is losing its reputation. If some one 
ain't hung pretty soon, people will begin to investigate, and 
ask impertinent questions, and hunt around for evidence. 
Wonder if that fellow is shamming the dumb business, to 
create sympathy. It's odd how easily that Jonas Hardy 
slipped away. But I'm glad he's gone. He's a horrible 
villain ! His presence was positively contaminating. I hear 
old Sawbones is going to do something important to-day. 
Wonder what it can be ? That was an odd idea of that boy 
of his going around looking at all of the pistols in camp. 
Didn't see mine. Swore I never had one. O, what a vil- 
lainous world this is ! [Enter Dr. M. r. 2 e. 

Doctor. I've removed the bandage from one arm and find 
it in fine condition. The poor fellow is crazy to get hold of 
a pen, and I've got an idea that when he begins to write 
there will be work for Job Cadwallader and his deputy. 

[Sees Grimes. 

Grimes. Good morning, Doctor. 

Dr. [Gruffly.] Good morning. 

Grimes. How are the broken arms ? 

Dr. The broken arms are no longer broken arms, sir. 

Grimes. Eh, really ! Doctor, it seems to me there has 
been a good deal of time and sympathy wasted on that fel- 
low. 

Dr. That's your opinion, is it? 

Grimes. Well, it looks that way to me, and to a good 
many others. 

Dr. Who are the others ? 

Grimes. Why — nearly everybody. 

Dr. [Angrily.'] Name one man besides yourself! 

Grimes. Well, now, there's no occasion for getting ex- 
cited. 

Dr. See here, Grimes. It seems to me that you are in- 
teresting yourself altogether too much. I think I said as 
much to you a week ago. This man, whoever or whatever 
he may be, is in the hands of those who are responsible for 
his appearance, when the law demands him, and the less 
you mix in his affairs, the better it will be for you in the long 
run. 

Grimes. Well, I suppose I have a right, as a respectable 
law-abiding citizen, postmaster, express agent and deacon, 
to express an opinion. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 35 

Dr. The fewer opinions you express, the better. Get 
out! 

Grimes. What's that? 

Dr. I said get out ! The sight of you makes me bilious. 

Grimes. There's no occasion for getting personal. This 
house ain't yours— not yet. [Moving towards c. aside. ~\ Mi- 
serable pill-builder! How I hate him. [A/oud.] Oh, Doctor, 
I forgot to tell you, Old Sledge is down to eighteen. 

Dr. [Turns quickly.'] What's that? 

[Grimes jumps out onto veranda. 

Grimes. Doctor, did you know the widow wore a wig 
and false teeth ? 

[Doctor starts for Grimes. He runs out c. and disap- 
pears. 

Dr. I had all I could do to keep it back, but we're not 
quite ready yet, not yet. I've warned the patient that the 
arm must rest easily for a half hour. It's astonishing how 
closely Hamilton sticks to the side of that girl Aurelia. I 
couldn't get a word with her. That was a remarkable ec- 
centricity on the part of Mrs. Stockup, signing her stock 
over to Aurelia. I hope Ham has not heard of it. I should 
dislike to see that boy sacrificed. He is young and inno- 
cent — the world just opening before him. The girl is. 
strong-willed and imperious. No match for an ingenuous- 
boy like Hamilton. What she needs is a strong, steady 
rein, a matured judgment. Two hundred thousand dollars 
v would be too great a responsibility, far too great, for two 
young and inexperienced children. No, no, Hamilton must 
not be sacrificed — rather myself, rather myself. 
[Goes up, and out on veranda c. Hamilton and Aurelia 

enter R. 2 E. 

Au. O, nonsense, you're a jesting. 

Ham. No, I'm terribly in earnest. 

Au. But how long is it since you discovered it? 

Ham. How long? O, this is* no new discovery, no sud- 
den passion. You wrong me by the insinuation. 

Au. Why, you've been making love to mamma for a 
month. 

[Doctor steps into room. 

Ham. And you have noticed it ? 

Ati. I don't see how I could well help noticing it. 

Ham. Then a — a part at least of my plot has been suc- 
cessful. 



36 FROM SIRE TO SON ; OR, 

Au. Your plot ? 

Ham. And you never guessed it ! How perfectly artless 
or heartless you must be. Piqued beyond endurance by 
your indifference, in mad desperation I thus sought to test 
you, to learn whether that coldness was real or assumed. 

Au. [Aside.'] Well, I don't know which is the greatest 
liar. [Aloud.] But you men are all such deceivers. The 
next pretty face you see you will forget mine, particularly if 
her stock happens to be quoted a little higher than mine. 

Ham. There you stab me to the heart again. Stocks! 
Stocks! As though one's virgin affections could be weighed 
in the scale with filthy dross. How can I prove my sincer- 
ity, and the unselfishness of my devotion. 

[Doctor, in back-gi'ound, greatly concerned. 

An. I'll find a way to test you. 

Ham. Whatever the test, I shall pass through it triumph- 
antly. True love will surmount every obstacle. 

Au. Very well. Then we understand each other now. I 
confess I doubted you for a time. You know, we women 
are sensitive creatures, and very naturally like to feel that 
those delicate attentions which we receive from the opposite 
sex are a tribute to ourselves, and not to the mere accidents 
of stocks and bonds. 

Ham. Perish the unworthy thought. 

[ They sit on ottoman L. 

Au. It's so nice to be loved for one's self alone. 

Ham. And nicer to have some one who is worthy being 
loved for herself alone. 

Au. And when we are married, what are we to do ? 

Ham. I haven't thought much about it, but the same as 
other people do when they are married, I suppose. 

Au. Yes, of course. Then first, there will be a trip to 
New York. 

Ham. And to Europe. 

Au. And the Continent. 

Ham. And Jerusalem. 

Au. And Coney Island. 

Ham. And Switzerland. 

Au. And to New Jersey. 

Ham. Yes, yes ; why, confound it, we'll go around the 
horn — I mean, the world. 

Au. But, Hammy dear, that would cost lots of money, 
wouldn't it? 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 37 

Ham. A trifle, a mere bagatelle. 

Au. I'm so glad, for I would never marry unless I could 
have a trip around the world. 

Ham. We'll go twice around. 

Au* And I must have a dressmaker up from San Fran- 
cisco at once. 

Ham. Send for her to-morrow. 

An. And seven silk dresses, one for each day in the 
week. 

Ham. Make it ten, for Sundays and holidays. 

An. And then I must have a maid. 

Ham. Two maids, one for me. 

Au. What! 

Ham. No — no — one for the — one for Sundays. 

An. O, dear, isn't it nice to be loved ? 

Ham. I don't know — yes, certainly, of course. 

Au. Hammy dear, when did you first discover that you 
loved me ? 

Ham. I hardly know. 

Au. It was awfully sudden, wasn't it ? 

Ham. It always is. Love's not a flower that grows in — 
in — [Takes out book, a?id gets the line.~\ the dull earth, must 
wait for time to spring, to stem, to bud, to blow. Love 
owns a richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed. You look 
for it, see it not, and lo ! e'en while you gaze the peerless 
flower is up, consummate in its birth. 

Au. That sounds very familiar. 

[Doctor gets out onto veranda in disgust. 

Ham. And now, Rilly dear, when is the happy day to be ? 

Au. Just as soon as I can get ready. 

Ham. Suppose we get married first, and get ready after- 
wards. 

Au. We could save time that way. 

Ha?n. Yes, and trouble. 

Au. Yes, and expense. 

Ham. O, sink the expense. 

Au. Of course you know best about that, but we don't 
want the expense to sink us. And, O, Hammy dear, that 
just reminds me. You know that according to papa's will, 
neither mamma nor I could dispose of our stock until it 
touched par. [Dr. re-enters. 

Ham. It seems to me I heard something about it, but not 
being interested, I paid no attention. 



38 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Au. Well, you know, as soon as mamma's stock touched 
par, she signed it all over to me. 

Ham. Is it possible ! 

Au. Why didn't you know it? 

Ham. Certainly not, how could I ? 

Aa. Of course, how could you ? Besides, you were not 
interested. Papa was such a funny man. Then there was 
another clause, that if either of us should marry, the one 
marrying first should relinquish all of the stock to the other. 
Papa was such a funny man. 

Ham. Very. 
Doctor rushes out on veranda to laugh. Ham sits support- 
ing his head. Aurelia, choking with suppressed laughter, 

slips , off r. 2 e. Doctor comes down c. concealing 

laughter. 

Dr. Hello ! Ham, my boy, in the dumps. What's up ? 
Why, you look as blue as if you had lost a hundred thousand 
dollars. 

Ham. [Rises and solemnly takes Doctor's hand. ] There 
are moments when we desire to be alone with our surging 
thoughts, the present is such a moment for me. Father, 
there comes an hour in every son's life that must test his 
courage, his manhood, his self-sacrifice. The son who 
proves recreant at such a time, should go down through 
the ages branded as one of nature's failures. Take her, 
father ; Mrs. Stockup is yours. Be kind to her, strew the 
flowers of your budding affection in the pathway of her 
young life — I mean her life. Whatever my own intentions 
and desires may have been, they are as nothing, when a 
father's happiness is at stake. Heed not these foolish tears, 
they are tears of joy for a sacred duty well performed. Lose 
ot a moment, seal the pledge this very night. I know 
our happiness demands it. True — she is not so young as 
she was two or three decades ago, but what of that ? Love 
levels the barrier of years. And the longer I look at you, 
the more fully I become convinced that what you require is 
one who can be to you not only a wife, but a mother. 

[Hamilton rushes out of c. crying. 

Dr. He is right. We, both of us need mothers more 
than mothers-in-law. We've been making a couple of 
merry fools of ourselves, and those two women have been 
assisting in the operation, and amusing themselves at our 
expense. However, the incident demonstrates one fact, 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 39 

the women are, both of them, much clever than we give 
them credit for, and, evidently, quite clever enough to take 
care of themselves without the aid of Old Sledge, and 
Straight Flush. After a goods night's sleep I shall, probably, 
have a much better opinion of these two women than I have 
ever had before, with a corresponding depression in future 
estimates of myself. [Aurelia runs on R. 2. e. 

Ait. O Doctor, please come in. He's getting very im- 
patient, isn't it time to take the splints offthe other arm ? 

Dr. Yes, nearly, poor fellow ! I'll take them off at once, 
[x R.] and when they are removed you shall see 

Au. What ! What ! 

Dr. Til tell you in ten minutes. [Exit Doctor r. 2 e. 

An. O'psha ! I wonder where Hammy is? Poor fellow ! 
I gave him an awful shock, but I just couldn't help it, and 
he deserved it, for playing me for a simpleton. But I half 
like the fellow in spite of his lying and deceit. There's lots 
of good in him. I never thought so, though, until I saw 
him go heart and soul into this poor, dumb fellow's case. 

[Going r. Grimes enters c. 

Grimes. [Coughs. ] Ahem ! 

Au. [Turning.'] Now what does that old rattlesnake 
want, I wonder? 

Grimes. Lovely day. 

Au. The day has a right to be lovely if it wants to, I 
suppose. 

Grimes. Certainly, of course, there's no law to prevent it. 

Au. Then what's the occasion for saying anything 
about it ? 

Grimes. You don't like me very well, do you ? 

Au. I don't think I should ever commit suicide about 
you. 

Grimes. Have you heard the news ? 

Au. No, and don't want to. 

Grimes. O, yes, you do. 

Au. How do you know I do ? 

Grimes. Because you're a woman. Straight Flush has 
reached par, and still looking up. 

Au. Straight Flush ! Are you sure? 

Grimes. Thought you didn't want to know? 

Au. Well, this is different. How do you know it ? 

Grimes. Just got the news from the pony express. 

Au. Straight Flush at par ! O dear ! O dear ! I'm worth 
a hundred thousand dollars. 



4-0 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Grimes. Why don't you thank me for the news ? 

Au. I should have heard it anyway, shouldn't I ? 

Grimes. [Aside.'] Spiteful cat ! I'm sorry I told her now. 
I've a notion to tell her I was only joking. [Aloud.] How 
is the sick man ? 

Au. The sick man is well. 

Grimes. You don't say so. 

Au. Yes, I do say so. The Doctor is taking the splints 
off his arms now. 

Grimes. He can't say anything more to prove his inno- 
cence with the splints off, can he? 

Au. He can't say anything, but he can write, and then 
we shall learn who and what he is. 

Grimes. We know that already. He's Jonas Hardy, a 
murderer. 

Au. How do you know he is? 

Grimes. Didn't the husband of his victim say so? 

Au. And what if he did. I dare say he lied, for some 
reason of his own, the same as you would do if you found 
yourself getting into trouble. \_Exit Aureli a r. 2. e. 

Grimes. If I found myself getting into trouble! What did 
she mean by that? The Doctor is taking off the splints, and 
then he will be allowed to write! That means action! I've 
waited too long already; I'll wait no longer. 

\_Exit quickly c. Aurelia runs 071 hurriedly R. 2. E. 

Au. O, dear! O, dear! He has commenced writing, and 
the Doctor is so excited, he can't wait for him to finish a 
sentence. He has written something very important al- 
ready, and the Doctor wants Hamilton for something. [Ham- 
ilton enters excitedly c] O, Hamilton, quick ! quick ! 
Your father wants to see you, quick. 

Ham. Wants to see me! I should say he did, and I want 
to see him. I've got the clinching link in our chain of evi- 
dence. 

Au. What is it? What is it? 

Ham. I've got the two bullets that were shot from that 
poor fellow's pistol. 

Au. O, have you? Where did he shoot them? 

Ham. As I have said from the first, he fired into space. 

Au. And have they just come down? 

Ham. Just come down! 

\_Exit in disgust R. 2. E., quickly. 

Au. O, dear! O, dear! I'm just as excited as the rest of 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 41 

them, but I'm sure I don't know why; I suppose it must be 
catching. \_Ru?isupto c. door.'] There's that old rattlesnake 
Grimes laying down the law about something, and every 
loafer and bummer in the camp listening to him. I wonder 
what mischief he's up to! And they all keep looking over 
this way. I'll just go in and tell the. Doctor. 
|\£r#AuRELiA R. 2. e. Grimes sneaks up onto veranda 

c. , followed by a mob of ten or a dozen men in different 

styles of make-up, some well-dressed gamblers, others 

miners and camp followers. They enter half timidly, half 

defiantly. Grimes is the leading spirit of the mob. They 

all drop dowyi l. Abe Isaacs is a genteel few gambler; 

Budd. McKixstry, a miner. 

Grimes, [c] He's in that room, and they are going 
through some flummery or other about his writing down his 
evidence. Now we've had all the evidence necessary in this 
case. 

Abe Isaacs. What is the evidence ? 

Grimes. Why, the dead body and the smoking gun. 

Budd McKiyistry. Yes, with two chambers empty. 

Grimes. And the statement of the woman's husband. We 
all heard it. 

Omnes. Yes, that's true. I heard it. I heard it. 

Grimes. I tell you, gentlemen, there's some trickery go- 
ing on here to cheat justice. The deputy who has been 
hanging around, ostensibly guarding the prisoner, was re- 
lieved yesterday. 

Omnes. Is that so ? 

Grimes. Of course it's so. Who has seen him since yes- 
terday morning ? 

Abe. That don't look right. What was he taken off for ? 

Grimes. What for? What for? Why, to give the murderer 
a chance to escape, of course. The man is a gambler; prob- 
ably had some rich pals who fixed the Sheriff. 

Abe. What! Fix Cadwallader! Fix Job Cadwallader! 
See here, Grimes, if you hear me, Job Cadwallader ain't 
that kind of a cat. 

Budd. That's so. Cadwallader' s a square man. 

Omnes. Yes, sir, Cadwallader is dead square. 

Grimes. Well, of course I didn't mean to say anything 
against Cadwallader. 

Abe. I wouldn't, if I were you. 

Omnes. Certainly not. Cadwallader' s all right. 



42 FROM SIRE TO SON ; OR, 

Grimes. [Aside.] Miserable curs ! [ The mob confer in 
du??ib show.] They're afraid of the very name of Cadwal- 
lader. I ain't. If I was, I couldn't afford to show it now. 
Nature's first law's self-preservation. Some one will be 
hung for this murder, sure, and there ain't a neck in Cali- 
fornia that would fit me as well as the one I've got now. 
[A/oud.'] Of course, gentlemen, all we want is to see the 
law enforced. 

Omnes. Certainly, that's all. 

Budd. The woman was murdered, and some one ought 
to be hung. 

Abe. Certainly, if it's only a Chinaman. 

Grimes. Let's have the w r oman-shooter out and have a 
look at him. 

Omnes. Yes, of course. Let's have him out. 
\_General movement R. Doctor M. e?iters r. 2. e. in shirt- 
sleeves; stands R. Pause. 

Dr. Well, gentlemen, is this display of numbers meant 
to intimidate? 

Grimes. Not exactly; but the leading citizens of the camp 
have conferred together and decided that something should 
be done with the murderer of that poor woman. When 
murders have been committed in this camp before, the as- 
sassins have been promptly hung. 

Dr. So this one will be, when he is found, and his guilt 
proven. 

Gri?nes. This man's guilt is perfectly plain, isn't it, gen- 
tlemen ? 

Omnes. Yes, perfectly plain. No doubt about it. 

[Mrs. Stockup enters r. 2. e. Remains r. 

Dr. That's your opinion, is it? 

Omjies. Yes, certainly. That's our opinion. Why not ? 

Dr. See here, gentlemen, Grimes, th^t don't include you, 
I have seen for some time a spirit of lawlessness brooding 
among certain elements of this camp, fomented, no doubt, 
by some person or persons whose motives may appear later 
on. I look into your faces and I see among you men with 
whom I have lived now for three years. Some of you I 
have nursed through raging fevers, brought on by your own 
wild lives, and when you haven't had money to square the 
bill, I have said " All right, my boy, pay it when the cards 
are coming your way." Am I right, Abe Isaacs? 

Abe. Yes, Doc, you're right about that. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 43 

Dr. Good. There are others out of whose carcasses I 
have dug more or less lead, and whose wounds I have 
dressed, and sewed 'em up and made 'em as good as new, 
and waited patiently for pay-day, and pay-day, in some 
cases, seems to have been indefinitely postponed. Am I right, 
Budd McKinstry ? 

Budd. Guess you've got it about straight, Doc. 

Dr. In the meantime, I have continued upon the even 
tenor of my more or less variegated career, liquidating my 
weekly hash bill with religious punctuality. Am I right, 
Mrs. Stockup ? 

Mrs. S. Yes, Doctor, you are right to a dollar. 

Dr. Then, gentlemen, Grimes again omitted, in the name 
of the great Father of our common country, om?iia bona 
bonis — -/also in uno omnibus etc. x aqua distileta, to be well 
shaken and taken three times, before meals. 

Mrs. S. [Aside.~\ Good gracious, Doctor, what in the 
world are you talking about? 

[Grimes and others coyifer in dumb show. 

Dr. Make no mistake about me. Those men mean mis- 
chief, and I have very weighty reasons for wanting delay; , 
I'm talking against time. 

Mrs. S. Well, I'll back you against time seven days in 
the week. 

Dr. Thank you. This is no place for you. Step inside 
and tell those men to be on their guard, and ready to de- 
fend themselves, but not to show themselves out here, un- 
less I call for help, or they hear a gun. 

Mrs. S. [At door R. 2.] Marmaduke, you're a regular 
hero, and I'm proud of you, and if these men don't kill you 
to-night, I'll marry you to-morrow. \_Exit Mrs. S. r. 2. 

Dr. [Looking after her.^\ Thank you. Death is now 
robbed of half its terrors. 

Grimes. Well, we don't see what aqua or uno or omni- 
bus has to do with this case. This committee of citizens is 
dissatisfied to have a murderer at large in camp, and petted 
and pampered like a sick child. They say it is a dangerous 
precedent, and they propose to turn this man over to the 
proper authorities. 

Dr. They do, eh? 

Grimes. Yes, they do. Don't you, gentlemen ? 

O nines. Yes, we do. Let's have him out. [Moveme?ii R. 

Dr. Hold on, gentlemen. Grimes, who made you the 
mouthpiece of offended law and public opinion ? 



44 FROM SIRE TO SON J OR, 

Grimes. I claim no such distinction. I am an humble 
worker, with others. My voice is but one of the many that 
demand the enforcement of the law for the general good of 
the community. 

Dr. And again I ask, Who made you the community's 
spokesman ? 

Grimes. And again, I repeat, we are wasting valuable 
time. 

Omnes. Yes, there's too much talk. Let's have him out. 

[Movement r. 

Dr. Stop, men! If I believed this man guilty of that 
poor woman's murder, I would first, as a humane physi- 
cian, heal his wounds as I am doing now, and I would then 
hand him over to justice ; but I know him to be innocent. 

Omnes. [General taught] Innocent! How do you know 
it? 

Grimes. He has never said so himself. 

Dr. No, poor fellow! He has never spoken a word in 
his own defence. 

Grimes. Then how do you know he is innocent ? 

Dr. I know it by that God-given instinct by which one 
honest man may read the heart of another — an instinct, Mr. 
Grimes, which, it is quite needless for me to say, is entirely 
out of the range of your feeble comprehension. 

Grimes. This is all bosh, and we are losing valuable time. 

Omnes. Stand aside! Let's have a look at him. 

Dr. Gentlemen, stop! You are treading on dangerous 
ground. 

Grimes and Omnes. Well, we'll take the chances. 

[Movement R. 

Dr. Stop! I see among you men whom I know to pos- 
sess some of the elements of manhood, and to such I say 
you are being used by a designing man for purposes of his 
own. Pause before it is too late. Do any of you believe in 
your hearts that if this man were a common murderer, I 
would nurse him day and night, as I have done, and stand 
here parleying for his miserable life? No, you don't. I 
watched his face when we led him to look at that poor, 
murdered woman's body. An All-wise Being, for some suf- 
ficient reason of His own, had stricken him dumb; but, in the 
agonized lines of his haggard face, in the tearful depths of 
his sleepless eyes, I read a language more eloquent than 
any tongue could utter; and when the first sod fell upon that 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 45 

rude coffin, I looked again into the face of that maimed and 
speechless man, and his very soul seemed struggling to free 
itself from the bondage of his mangled flesh. He had no 
sound to utter, no hand to clasp ; but in that face I read 
these words : " I loved that woman." That was enough for 
me. Men do not murder women whom they love, and in 
the solemn watches of the night, I have seen him ascend 
that mountain-side and stand for hours beside that new- 
made grave, with only his secret God to know his thoughts, 
while his pale lips moved in voiceless prayer. 

Grimes. Rot! the man is feigning the dumb business to 
create sympathy. But what has this to do with the case? It 
don't constitute evidence. 

Omnes. No ; certainly not. 

Dr. Possibly not. But I'll tell you something that does 
constitute evidence. 

Omnes. Well, what is it? Out with it! 

Dr. You all carry guns, and you understand their use. 
Now, how could a man possibly so hold or use a weapon as 
with two shots to kill another person and break both of his 
own arms ? 

Onmes. Hold on. That's so. [They confer together. 

Grimes. Gentlemen, this is childish nonsense, and a 
waste of valuable time. Let's have him out! 

Omnes. All right ; out with him! [Movement R. 

Dr. One moment, men. You claim to want evidence, 
and I'm trying to give it to you. 

Grimes and Omnes. Well, talk fast. 

Dr. The bullet taken from the woman's body was not 
shot from that man's revolver. 

Omnes. How do you know that ? 

Dr. I have weighed it in the balance with one of the 
other bullets. They are not the same. 

Grimes. O, if this was so, we should have known it long 
ago. 

Omnes. Yes, of course. Let's have him out. 

[Movement R. 

Dr. Another proof. A dozen men will swear that four 
shots were fired. So far, only two have been accounted for. 

Grimes. [Aside."] The ground is sinking beneath my feet. 
[Aloud.~\ Enough of this nonsense! The man is a murderer 
and must pay the penalty, and while we are jobbing here, 
he is making his escape. 



46 FROM SIRE TO SON ; OR, 

Grimes and O nines. Sure enough ! That's so ! Stand 
aside! [Movements. 

Dr. Men of Yuba ! Stand where you are. I am here to- 
day in a double capacity. I am that man's physician, I am 
also a sheriff's deputy, in charge of a wounded prisoner. 
I am answerable to the law for his body, I am answerable 
to my conscience and my God for his life. [Draws.] The 
man who enters that room will have to make a door-mat 
of my body. 

Grimes and nines. [All draw revolvers. 

All. Then your life or his. 
Simultaneous action. Mob led by Grimes rush r. Arma- 
tige, in shirt sleeves, pale, but firm and determine, revol- 
ver in hand, rushes c. to Doctor's side. Hamilton 
rushes, revolver in hand, down r. to his father. At same 
moment Job Cadwallader appears in c. d. 
Job Cad. [Speaking as he enters c] Hands up ! 
The mob shriyik to L. All holding up their hands, with 
weapons in them. 

Cad. [a] Mandrake gather in their guns. 
Cadwallader, Armitage a?id Doctor cover the mob, 
while Hamilton, commencing at upper e?id of crowd, 
disarms each man, cramming the pistols into his various 
pockets, and speaking during the action, as he looks at the 
different zveapons. 

Ham. I've seen this before, and this, and this, &c. &c. 
Yes, sir, I've had a — a cartridge or a bullet from every one 
of these. [Takes Grime's pistol.] But here's one I never 
saw before. [Pause.] You told me you never carried a 
pistol. 

Cad. He lied then. As express agent he is compelled to 
be armed. Let me see that gun. [Ham hands Grimes' 
pistol to Cad.] And that is the weapon furnished by the 
company to all of their agents. 

Ham. [Taking Grimes' pistol from Cad.] Excuse me a 
minute. [Pirns off r. 2. e. 

Grimes. [Aside.'] What is he going to do? I must get 
out of this. [Aloud.] Well, boys, now that the Sheriff is 
here, we know that the law will be enforced, we may as well 
withdraw. [Movement up c. 

Cad. Stand right where you are. The first man who 
tries to go out of this room, until I tell him to go, will be 
carried out. Who constituted you this man's judge and 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 47 

jury ? You have gone too far in pursuit of what you are 
pleased to call law and justice. There was a time here 
when they hung men first and looked up the evidence after- 
wards; but while I'm Sheriff of Yuba county, we'll work 
the law machine the other way. [Goes R. 

Grimes. [Aside .] I knew this hanging had been put off 
too long. Now they'll keep blundering around till they get 
the right man. 

Up to this time Cadwallader has not seen John's face, 
though Armitage has recognized him by facial expres- 
sion, and tried to attract his attention. At end of Grimes' 
speech Cad. tur?is and sees Armitage' s face. 
Cad. [r. cor.~\ Great God ! John Oakley ! [Rushes up 
and grabs Armitage in his arms, hugs him again a?id 
again, and the?i takes both ha?ids.~\ John ! John ! my old 
friend ! my champion ! 

Dr. Easy, Sheriff, those arms are very tender yet. 
Cad. O, true, true, I forgot ! John ! John ! 
Dr. Then do you know my patient, Sheriff? 
Cad. Do I know him ? Do I know John Oakley ? John, 
with the lions courage and the woman's heart ! Why, Doc, 
he saved my life at North San Juan. I was a deputy over 
there then, and a poor devil of a German boy had struck a 
rich pocket, and a gang of jumpers had run him off. The 
Sheriff gave me orders to get two or three trusty specials 
and do 'em up. The men were fighters, and armed to the 
teeth, and not a man in camp would give me a hand. The 
poor German stood crying, and pleading for his rights, John 
here was dealing a big game that night, thousands of slugs 
were stocked in rows around his table. I saw him look up 
through his eyebrows at the poor German boy, then his 
eyes met mine. Then he motioned his partner, who w r as on 
the lookout, to take the box. Then he quietly left the 
table, lit his cigar, buttoned his coat across his throat, 
slipped his arm through mine, and so we went out together 
into that night of darkness and death ; we two agin five. 
But we run 'em in, four of 'em dead and one alive. I went 
down first, with two slugs in my side. He laid me behind 
a big boulder and guarded me like a tiger. Then he fell, 
beside, and I thought we were both goners; but it was only 
a trick, and when the two last of 'em rushed out to finish 
us up, John dropped the first one and the last man threw up 
his hands. Then the wiry little giant, with blood streaming 



48 FROM SIRE TO SON ; OR, 

from a half dozen wounds, threw my big bulky carcass over 
his shoulder and carried me into camp, and nursed me back 
to life again with the gentleness of a woman. Do I know 
him ? When I don't know John Oakley my mouth will be 
stopped with clay. \_Shakes John's hands. 

Dr. Easy Cad, easy, don't forget the broken arms. 

Cad. All right, Doc — all right. And is this the man 
they call a woman-killer ? Gentlemen, you hear me, 
women-shooters ain't made of this kind of material. 

Dr. Just what I've always said, I didn't know the man, 
but our hearts went out to each other, the moment he re- 
covered consciousness and looked into my eyes. 

Cad. Stop! hold on! What was the murdered woman's 
name? 

Dr. The man who claimed to be her husband called her 
Mabel. 

Cad. O, no — no! John, John, not your Mabel — not your 
wife ? 

John eagerly signifies yes. 

Dr. Did you know her, too ? 

Cad. Of course I did — the sweet-faced angel! and I 
knew the dog who enticed her, a mere child, from her 
home. I saw him strike her in the face seventeen years ago, 
and I saw John Oakley break his neck with a single blow. 
I was foreman of the jury that tried and acquitted him. I 
know that he regularly married her afterwards, and I know 
that he loved the very earth she walked on, and I know 
that every man who knew her respected her and honored 
John Oakley for making her his wife. 

Dr. And so do I, and his face told me plainer than words 
how he loved her. O, Cadwallader, if we could only make 
him speak! But it will come. I feel it ; I know it. His 
voice will come back, and it will come as suddenly as it left 
him. I have been reading up several similar cases. 
John has followed everything closely with his facial expres- 
sions. He now takes manuscript front his breast and 

hands it to Doctor. 

Dr. Ah, true! he has been writing, and in the excite- 
ment I had forgotten that. [John c, Cadwallader l. 
c, Doctor r. Doctor reads.'] "My name is Alfred 
Armitage. For twenty years I have followed gambling 
upon this coast under the assumed name of John Oakley. 
The lady shot on May ioth was my wife, Mabel Armitage. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 49 

We have been married seventeen years and have a daughter, 
sixteen years of age, who has been raised and educated in 
the Convent of the Sacred Heart, in San Francisco. I loved 
my wife devotedly, as she did me, and during our seven- 
teen years of married life, not one unkind word or thought 
ever passed between us. The man who called her his wife, 
and uttered the foul libel upon her name in my defenceless 
presence, was Jonas Hardy, a gambler, who had been work- 
ing with me for about six years. We had a slight misun- 
derstanding that evening. I had told him of my determin- 
ation to quit the life I had been leading, and of my intention 
of going to San Francisco, taking our child from the con- 
vent, and, with my wife, leaving the country. A few mo- 
ments later I imparted the same information to my wife. 
She was overjoyed with the thought. We started to enter 
the hotel together. My left arm was around my wife's 
shoulder, when a shot from an unseen hand broke my arm 
and entered my wife's heart. She fell, and never spoke 
again. I saw the flash. It came from the half-open win- 
dow of the Post Office. ' ' [A// look at Grimes. Pause. 

Grimes. It's a lie! it's a lie! Who will believe such a 
statement about a respectable citizen without a particle of 
corroborative evidence ? 

Cad. Shut up! If you open your yawp again, I'll have a 
Chinaman come in and kick you out. 

Dr. Silence ! [Reading7\ " I drew, and fired two shots in 
the direction of the flash. Then a second shot from the 
window broke my pistol arm and entered my side." Where 
I found it! Aha ! the four shots are now accounted for. 

[Hamilton enters quickly r. 2 e. 

Ham. And the four bullets are accounted for, too. An 
hour ago I observed bullet-holes in the timber about the 
Post Office window. I dug out two bullets, weighed them 
in the scale with the cartridges taken from the prisoner's 
pistol, and they balance to a hair. It is a different calibre 
from any weapon in the camp. 

Grimes. [Aside ] I knew it ! I knew it ! [A loud. ~] But 
this proves nothing. 

Ham. But here is something that proves a great deal. 
Here are two battered bullets ; one taken from the heart of 
the murdered woman, the other from the right side of the 
prisoner. I have weighed this lead against a ball from 
every pistol in the camp, and at last I have found the 



50 FROM SIRE TO SON ; OR, 

weapon from which they were shot. It is the weapon just 
taken from Peter Grimes. 

Dr. Peter, this begins to look like corroborative evi- 
dence. 

Grimes. It's a lie! it's a lie ! What object could I have? 
Besides, there may be a dozen pistols in camp carrying the 
same ball. 

Ham. So far, only one has been found. They run six- 
teen to the pound, and, until some one produces such a 
weapon, the burden of evidence points towards that Post 
Office window. 

Grimes. This is an outrage on a respectable citizen — a 
plot to ruin my character, destroy my usefulness in the 
community, and rob me of my office. This is a political 
conspiracy. 

Dr. Go slow, Grimes. No one has accused you as yet. 
But you have been clamoring for justice, and we are simply 
trying to find out just how and where we are to begin ad- 
ministering it. 

Cad. Mr. Grimes, you appear here as the leader of a mob 
in an effort to lynch a wounded and speechless man. Cir- 
cumstances over which you have no control seem to have 
interfered in the prisoner's favor, and it now begins to look 
a little as though the next hanging bee in which you are 
engaged will find you at the other end of the rope. 

Bud McKinstry. See here. Grimes, if you have been 
leading us on to hang an innocent man, to cover up your 
own tracks, we will just try our hand on you while we are 
in the hanging humor. 

Grimes. Gentlemen, this is an outrage. What possible 
motive could I have for murdering two perfect strangers ? 

Cad. That's just what we are waiting to learn. Mr. 
Grimes, the finger of fate is pointing in your direction. 
You evidently know something about this terrible tragedy. 
Take my advice and tell all you know. You can say noth- 
ing to make your chances look any more dubious than they 
do now, and you may possibly be able to improve them. 

Grimes. O, what a villainous world this is! 

Cad. It is a tough world, Grimes, but it's the only one 
we know anything about, and we must make the best of it. 

Grimes. Well, Sheriff, you're right. I do know more 
about this murder than I wish I did. But the knowledge 
was forced upon me. Before I speak, I want an assurance 
of your protection from these men. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 51 

Cad- All right. You are my prisoner. Gentlemen, you 
know what that means 

Omnes. Certainly, of course. 

Abe. We understand English. 

Grimes. Well, on the evening of the murder, the man 
Jonas Hardy was in my office, at the window. I was writ- 
ing at my desk, when I heard the crack of a pistol. I looked 
up and saw him standing by the window with my pistol 
smoking in his hand. In an instant two shots were fired 
outside, and then Jonas Hardy levelled and fired again, 
through the window. It was all done so quick that I hadn't 
time to realize what he was doing. Then he closed the 
window quickly, extinguished the light, and bolted the door. 
Then he said to me : * ' Two people have been killed from 
that window, by your revolver. The less you know about 
it, the better for you." By this time the whole camp was 
on the scene. He then slipped out the rear door of the of- 
fice. 

Cad. Hold on, Grimes. When left alone, why did you 
not give the alarm ? That moment was the time for you to 
speak. No one would have thought of accusing you at that 
time, had you told the truth. 

Grimes. Well, Sheriff, there's something behind. 

Cad. Ah! I thought so; out with it. 

Grimes. Well, some years ago I had the Post-office at 
Grass Valley. This man Hardy was there at the time, and 
accused me of tampering with the United States Mail. 

Cad. A very serious charge. Why didn't you make him 
prove it ? 

Grimes. He did prove it, that's the trouble, but, for 
reasons of his own, he never exposed me. But when he 
found me here, he took that mean advantage of me. 

Dr. This is getting interesting. 

Grimes. As soon as the bodies had been carried into the 
house, and while the whole camp was in, looking at them, 
he slipped into my office by the back door. He had a little 
sole-leather bag in his hand, closely strapped and locked. 
[Armitage begins writing eagerly.'] "Grimes, old man," 
said he, "I find that one person is dead and another so bad- 
ly wounded that he can't speak. For your own safety, I ad- 
vise you to maintain that the man shot the woman, and then 
tried to kill himself. If the man is lynched to-morrow, so 
much the better for you — you sabe!" And before I could 



52 FROM SIRE TO SON J OR, 

pull myself together, he was gone. Now, gentlemen, was 
that a nice position in which to place a respectable citizen 
and government official ? [John hands tablet to Doctor. 

Dr. \_J?eads.~\ "That little sole-leather bag contained our 
marriage certificate, all of my private papers, all letters from 
the Sister Superior in charge of our daughter, a certificate 
of deposit for ten thousand dollars in San Francisco; in 
short, everything necessary to establish our identity and 
prove our relationship to our child." 
Mrs. Stockup and Aurelia ran on r. 2. e. Aurelia 

has newspaper in her hand. 

Both. O, Doctor, Doctor! 

Cad. Ladies, you had better remain inside. This is no 
place for you. 

Au. We can't stand it any longer. We have heard every 
word. [ To foJm.~\ You say your name is Alfred Armitage ? 

[John signifies 'yes" 

Au. This paper came to-day. Here, Doctor, read that. 
[Hands paper to Doctor, who reads. 

Dr. [Reading from paper. Armitage following him 
with his facial expression^ "Final Chapter in the Famous 
Carrollton Romance. A few weeks since, we chronicled the 
death of Daniel Carrollton, and the fact of his having willed 
all of his millions in bonds and reality to his grandchild, 
Mabel Armitage, then an inmate of the Convent of the Sa- 
cred Heart. Quite recently, the girl's father, Alfred Armi- 
tage, arrived in this city, in answer to the attorney's adver- 
tisement. From him it was learned that the mother, who 
had deserted him and continued her evil ways, was recently 
killed by her paramour, who also seriously wounded himself, 
and was subsequently hanged by the Vigilance Committee. 
Mr. Armitage was amply fortified with documents and cor- 
respondence to completely establish his identity, and, hav- 
ing placed his daughter's estates in the hands of a promi- 
nent legal firm, he cashed several thousand dollars in bonds, 
also withdrew a large deposit from the bank of Wells, Fargo 
& Co., and, taking his daughter from the convent, disap- 
peared as mysteriously as he came." 
Armitage, who has been struggling violently during the 

reading, finally utters a terrible shriek. All start. 

Armitage. My child! My God! my child! 

All. He speaks! 

Armitage. [ Wildly \] A voice ! a voice ! Thank God ! I 
speak again ! O Thou unseen Power that hast so sorely 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 53 

tried me in the furnace of affliction, accept my prayerful 
thanks for restoration at this awful moment. My child! The 
monster has taken my child! Quick! quick! Let me go! 
If ever mortal needed the sustaining arm of friendship, I 
need it now. [Takes hands of Doctor and Hamilton.] 
Your friendship you have proven by heroic devotion to a 
stranger's cause. [To Cadwallader.] Yours I have 
proven in days gone by — may I count upon it still? 

Cad. If every hair in my head was a life, and every hair 
in my beard was a heart, they all belong to you. 

Armitage. I know it ! I know it! 

All. Where shall we go ? 

Armitage. Where? Where should an outraged father go 
who seeks the assassin of his wife, the pollutor of his child! 
Wherever human voices fall upon the ear, wherever human 
shadows fall upon the earth! The spirit of my murdered 
wife, the shrieks of my outraged child, will guide our foot- 
steps. Across the scorching deserts of the East, through the 
trackless wilderness of the West, over the frozen summits 
of the North, down to the gates of burning hell ! Only the 
grave shall hide him ! 

Curtain. 



ACT III. 

Grand Salon in a hotel at Venice or Naples. Series of open 
arches at back, opening onto veranda overlooking the canal 
or bay. Both sides are arches hang with rich draperies , 
leading to interiors. Time, night. Distant street along 
canal is illuminated. The salon is richly furnished and 
briliiantfy lighted. A mandolin on table or ottoman R. c. 

Dance music. Strauss waltz heard off "l. at rise. The scene 
:: ~.:z z::\ :.■::: .::::„>:.::: ::■;; S; ":.- ::::';*:/ ;;:,-t; 

Mrs. Waldaur and Aurzlia come forwards and guests 

/" .:.:':.. :."y :\r;; 7. v 1 
Mrs. Waldaur, a handsome,, statuesque lady of fifty \ white 

'-:.::■ .:■;.:" ^ .-■;.-•*-.:." _:/ ':-'; ■■:':.; /;.; : : - y ^ : : .\V :.-:.£ .:*«: :- 
able-mannered. Elegantly costumed. Attrelia, hi «&- 

/.:;: ;.\\V;. 

JTrj. W. You seem to enjoy dancing, Mrs. Mandrake? 
^4* . Indeed, I do. I just dote on waltzing. And such 

"■' :-- '.:: .: :i An: 5 :. ~ _f:: -r.: 5 .;: - : zzzz ::z. '.:-. : zs A:i 
such lovely toilets! The whole scene is to me like a dream 
•::*:~=irv ^r_: 

JMrx. in Then this is your first trip abroad ? 

An. Yes, bat not my last. Indeed, if I had my way. I 
would live and die in Italy. 

Mrs. lt\ You think so now, but sooner or later, like a 
::_t Az-.rr::ir. y ; _ .„' leirr :: :yy_ :e: :. - y : .;: -:~e zz z 
'.zZTt. ; ; — _::;-. zzzzt z-zzzzztz. : :f -l:::; zzyzzz.zz ]•'-'- tlzi 
zztzzz. 

Au. Do you think so ? 

Mrs. IV. I am sure of it. I have visited all lands, and 
nowhere found nature so lavish in her beauty. And for 
szzztr/ — -• v; ■ }.: r ih ere :: ::".:i:e -._:'- -.he ^:a:;: :*i 
::;: :-:::~5 ir.i fer.ile v^eys z: zz.t zzzz: V.*tf: : 

.-':. . z-z ' -: :;-.: :^h: = ": : :: *.:.:: - - _ _ ;; : rt :: :s : erijse 
I was born there. And now I come all die way to Italy to 
learn from a foreigner how much more beautiful my own 
home is than any other. 

(54) 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 55 

Mrs. W. You are in error; I am not a foreigner, but an 
American, like yourself. 

Au. O, are you? I thought you were German. 

Mrs. W. My husband is of German descent, though the 
greater portion of our lives has been spent at the home of 
my family in Virginia, where we were married thirty years 
ago. 

Au. Thirty years! O, dear! what a long time to be mar- 
ried! And to one man, too. It don't seem possible that I 
shall ever be married as long as that. 

Mrs. W. I am sure you will, and many years longer. 

Au. No, I shan't. We have had three or four awful 
quarrels already. 

Mrs. W. Not very serious ones. 

Aic. Yes, indeed, very serious. Yesterday we didn't 
speak for an hour. 

Mrs. W. That was terrible. And whose fault was it ? 

Ait. Why, Ham's, of course. 

Mrs. IV. Ham's? 

Aic. That sounds odd, doesn't it? You see, my hubby's 
name is Hamilton, and Ham seems to be about the only ab- 
breviation for it. 

Mrs. W. And you were very happy during the hour he 
did not speak to you ? 

Au. No, I was perfectly miserable. 

Mrs. W. Of course you were. And when you kissed and 
made up, you were the happiest little woman in the world. 
And so, for a year, you will go on pouting, coaxing, quar- 
relling and kissing and loving each other better after each 
quarrel. By that time you will be getting well acquainted 
with each other. You will discover each other's little weak- 
nesses and vanities, as well as good qualities. You will 
learn to humor and appreciate each other, to feel how ne- 
cessary each is to the other's happiness. You will charge 
yourselves each morning with some new task of self-denial 
and self-control, until what you began as a task, becomes 
a pleasure ; and then the real happiness of your life will have 
found you. 

Au. And after that we won't quarrel at all? 

Mrs. W. Not frequently, I think. 

Au. Dear me ! I should think life would become very 
monotonous, then. 

Mrs. IV. You will doubtless find it quite the reverse of 



56 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

monotonous. Your mother and father seem to enjoy them- 
selves quite as heartily as the younger ones. 

Au. O, dear ! the Doctor isn't my father 

Mrs. IV. No ? 

Au. No indeed ! This is mamma's second honeymoon. 

Mrs. W. Really ! 

Ate. Yes, and the marriage was a sudden one, like our 
own. The Doctor had decided upon a sort of excursion 
trip to Europe, and, at the last moment, decided to marry 
mamma, and so combine business with pleasure. 

Mrs. IV. [Laughing.] Ah, yes, I see. 

Au. And, do you know. I don't believe they are enjoying 
their honeymoon: they haven't quarrelled once. I sup- 
pose that's because, having both been married before, they 
know just how to commence the real drama of married 
life, without the introductory overture in the shape of lovers 
spats 
Dr. Mandrake and Mrs. Mandrake enter l. u. e. both 

in full evening toilet. 

Dr. [Gaily '.] Now, Amanda, don't try to deny it, I saw 
you carrying on a desperate flirtation with the Count Johan- 
nesburg. 

Mrs. M. Nonsense, Marmaduke dear, how absurdly 
jealous you are. I was trying all the time to get away from 
his stupid compliments. 

Au. O, here they are, cooing like two turtle-doves. 
Mamma ! I want to introduce you. Mrs. Waldaur, My 
mamma, Mrs. Mandrake, and Doctor Mandrake. 

Mrs. W. Charmed, I'm sure. 

[All acknowledge introduction. 

Au. Mrs. Waldaur is an American, too. 

Mrs. M. Then we are doubly happy. 

Dr. Waldaur! Waldaur! We were recently introduced 
to a distinguished looking elderly gentleman of the same 
name. 

Mrs. W. Yes, sir, my husband. 

Dr. Ah, indeed, then I congratulate you, and permit me 
to add that I congratulate him as well. 

[Taking Mrs. W's hand with great gallantry. 

Mrs. M. Doctor ! 

Dr. [Chuckling, aside.~] Oho! jealous! Jealous, by the 
gods ! 

[Dr. and Mrs. M. retire up. Hamilton runs on u. e. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 57 

Ham. Well, a nice hunt I've had for you ladies. [Bows. J 
Mrs. Waldaur, your servant again. 

Au. Well, you need not have hunted, I wasn't lost. 

[Mrs. W., Dr. and Mrs. M. confer apart. 

Ham. You might as well have been lost, as far as I was 
concerned. 

Au. I don't suppose you would have worried yourself 
much if I had have been lost. 

Ham. I shall certainly never allow your frivolity to turn 
my brain. 

An. Your what? 

Ham. I said my brain. 

An. No fear of that. 

Ham. I wouldn't be a fool, if I were you. 

Au. Of course you wouldn't be a fool if you were me. 

[ They exit quarrelling l. Others come down~ 

Mrs. W. I learn from your daughter that you are Cal- 
ifornians. 

Dr. Yes. 

Mrs. W. From San Francisco ? 

Mrs. M. No, from the interior. 

Dr. In point of fact, Mrs. Waldaur, we are a little party 
of six, fresh from the mining camps. 

Mrs. W. Now I am more than ever interested; my hus- 
band has large interests there, and I have twice visited the 
coast with him. 

Dr Indeed. In what mines is he interested ? 

Mrs. W. He is half owner of the famous White Crow 
mine. 

Dr. and Mrs. W. Is it possible ! 

Dr. Then you have been within a very few miles of our 
little camp at Yuba. 

Mrs. IV. Yuba ! O, yes, indeed. I remember the name 
and the charming little village quite well. 

Dr. Now, this is jolly! 

Mrs. M. Why, it seems as though we were among old 
friends. 

Mrs. W. We must become better acquainted. My hus- 
band seeks the society of all Americans, and particularly 
those hailing from California. If you will excuse me, I will 
try to find him. 

Both. Certainly. [Exit Mrs. W., l. u. e. 

Dr. [Playfully], Amanda, now tell me, no fibbing, 
what was the Count saying to you ? 



58 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Mrs. M. Why, Marmaduke, how absurd you are. Why, 
you could see for yourself that I got away from him as 
soon as I could, without being positively rude. 

Dr. Well, I forgive you, but don't do it again. If you 
only knew what I suffered to see you thus sought and 
courted. 

Mrs. M. Suffered ! Why, Marmaduke, I should think 
you would feel proud of it. 

Dr. So I do, so I do. But still, I suffer, nevertheless. 
But in the sweet consciousness that you are mine, all 
mine, I can suffer in heroic silence. [Looks about cautiously], 
Ananda, one fond embrace. 

Mrs. M. Why, Marmaduke ! in such a public place! 

Dr. Not a soul looking; besides, its legitimate, and I 
haven't had a good hug for an hour. 
They embrace. Aurelia, Hamilton, and Cadwallader 

enter u. E. 

Cad. Let go ! 

Au. O, mamma ! mamma ! 

Ham. Dad, I'm ashamed of you. Ain't you ashamed of 
yourself? 

Dr. No, sir; but I am ashamed of you, and I sincerely 
trust that by the time you have reached the age of discre- 
tion, as I have done, and been twice through the mill, as I 
have, that you will have acquired sense enough to appre- 
ciate and enjoy a good thing when you get it. 

Cad. Good for you, Doc. Mrs. M. I am glad to see 
that you are enjoying yourself. 

[Aurelia and Hamilton run off u. e 

Mrs. W. I certainly did not marry for the purpose of 
making myself miserable. 

Dr. Certainly not. Her choice of a husband amply 
proves that. 

Cad. Nothing mean about you, Doc ; not even your 
opinion of yourself. But do you know the sigkt of you two 
jolly old honeymooners — 

Dr. [Aside], D — n it! don't say old. 

Cad. [Choking back laugh.] I mean the sight of two 
jolly honeymooners gives me a sort of matrimonial fever 
myself. Say, if either of you happens to run across a 
black- haired, dreamy-eyed Italian widow, who appears 
to be angling in the matrimonial pond, give me a pointer, 
will you. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 59 

Both. [Laughing.'] Certainly. Of course, etc. 

Cad. Provided, of course, that she is well heeled finan- 
cially; plenty of stocks and bonds. 

Mrs. M. [Aside.] That man is always saying- those 
things at just the wrong time. [Aloud.] Excuse me, gen- 
tlemen, I see Mrs. Waldaur beckoning lor me. 

[Exit Mrs. Mandrake u. e. l. 

Dr. I say, Cad, just drop the finance and stock-and- 
bond talk, won't you? Of course, /don't mind it. I'm 
used to it, but Mrs. M. is a little sensitive on that point. 

Cad. Certainly, of course. But I didn't mean it that way, 
you know. 

Dr. I know it. Certainly not. That's all right, only 
don't do it again, not in her presence. 

Cad. O, I'm on. I was looking at quotations down at the 
Consuls this afternoon. Old Sledge is up to 220, and 
Straight Flush 248. 

Dr. Great Scott ! You don't say so ? 

Cad. Sure. 

Dr. In another month I'll be worth a million. That is, 
counting Mrs. Mandrake at five hundred thousand, and the 
stock at an equal figure. 

Cad. Doc, how do you manage to live in this ranche ? 

Dr. Live! Why we iare sumptuously. Don't you? 

Cad. No, I don't. I don't like the grub for a cent, and 
the sour wine is vile enough to give a man the nightmare. 
I'd give ten dollars this minute for a good square drink of 
old Kentucky Bourbon. 

Dr. [Insinuatingly,] No! would you? Well, now, pos- 
sibly, I may be able to work the oracle. 

Cad. You don't mean it. Thought you gave it all up to 
the sea sickers crossing the channel. 

Dr. You know I am obliged to keep a little about me at 
all times for purely medicinal purposes. 

Cad. I'm the sickest man in Italy. [Takes Doctor's arm, 
doth start L.] I say, Doc, a Niagara Falls hackman would 
starve here. When I wanted t6 go to the American Con- 
sulate this morning, to see about my extradition papers, I 
sent a man out for a hack, and damme if he didn't bring 
me a canoe. 

[Both exit laughing l. i. e. 
Enter u. e. Waldaur a?id Mrs. Mand. [Waldaur is 

a tall, dignified man of sixty, white hair and beard, and 

speaks with a slight Germayi accent.] 



60 FROM SIRE TO SON ; OR, 

Wald. I cannot express to you, madam, my great 
happiness in meeting yourself and your most interesting^ 
family groupe, and to think that you were such near 
neighbors to our dear boy. 

Mrs. M. And he died at Gold Run, you say. 

Wald. Alas ! Yes, even the manner of his death we were 
never permitted to know. We were in Virginia at the 
time. There came by express a small package containing 
his effects, among them that certificate of half ownership 
of the mine, which a few months later was worth millions. 
But the great wealth we have always regarded as a sacred 
trust, confided to us by our dying child, who was not permit- 
ted to live to share it with us. The letter said that our dear 
boy had died suddenly, and in a pocket near his heart 
the writer had found a letter from his mother and myself,, 
from which our address was learned, and, strangest of all, 
the writer did not even sign his name, which rendered it 
impossible for us to convey to him our great gratitude. 
Was it not singular? 

Mrs. M. It would have been very singular had it occur- 
red anywhere else than among the big-hearted rough dia- 
monds of the great West. And you have but recently 
learned the name of your benefactor. 

Wald. Within a week ; here in this hotel. I have always 
sought the society of Americans, and to nearly all have 
told my strange story, hoping some day to learn his name, 
at last Heaven has rewarded my search. 

Mrs. M. I shall be charmed to meet the man whose act 
proves him a true Californian. If he has lived long in the 
mining districts, we may be old acquaintances. What is 
the name? 

Wald. Harwood, now of Boston. 

Mrs. M. Harwood. I do not seem to recall the name. 

Wald. You shall meet him during the evening. Now, 
remember, Mrs. Mandrake, I have your promise to visit our 
old Rhine Castle before you return to America. 

Mrs. M. I'm sure we shall greatly enjoy a visit to an old 
Castle on the Rhine. I have so often read of them and 
seen pictures of them, and now I shall see the reality. 

Wald. True ; and a typical one. Full (to me at least) of 
romantic and historic interest, to say nothing of the cold 
you are sure to catch wandering through its damp and 
mouldy corridors. [Enter Hamilton u. e. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 6l 

Ham. O, hear you are, Mr. Waldaur, the Countess von 
Tyne insists upon it that you are hers for the next waltz. 

Wald. I attend the Countess at once. Permit me. 
[Offers arm to Mrs. Mandrake.] 

Ham, And, mamma, the Count Johannesburg is sighing 
for your return. 

[Wald. and Mrs. M. exit laughing l. u. e. 

Ham. Mamma Mandrake is creating quite a social sen- 
sation, and to think how near she came to being my wife, 
instead of my mother-in-law, and then Aurelia would have 
"been my daughter instead of my wife, and then if dad had 
married Aurelia, my own daughter would have been my 
step-mother, and I would have been step-father to my own 
father, and my own daughter would have been my mother, 
and dad would have been the step-son of his mother-in- 
law. As it is now, if Mamma Mandrake should have a 
male heir, and we should be blessed with a female heir, I 
would be uncle to my own half-brother, and Aurelia would 
be aunt to her own child, and pop would be step-father to 
his own grandchild, and then if our children get married 
and raise families, I will become uncle to my own grand- 
children, and my father will become my uncle, my wife will 
be her mother's aunt, my mother-in-law will be my father's 
grandmother, and I will be nephew to my own wife, and 
grandfather to my own children, and then my great-grand — 

[A waiter x's. R. to l. with iray.~\ Here, waiter, take 
me out into the air, will you, I need a little oxygen. 

Waiter. Oxegeen ! oxegeen ! We are just out of ze 
oxegeen. 

Ham. Just out. Never mind, a little Holland gin will 
do just as well. 

\_Exit Hamilton and waiter l. e. 
Enter Jonas Hardy, evening dress, u. e. r. looks about. 

Jonas. Not here ! Not in her room. Strange, however, 
the maid is absent also, and I presume they are together. 
I am filled with a superstitious dread every hour that she 
is absent from my sight. The feeling is something so 
new to me. Last night again I saw that man standing at 
my bed side, with his pale face, and his cold steel-grey 
eyes devouring my very soul. I tried to draw a weapon, 
but I was powerless to move a muscle ; he seemed to re- 
alize it, and his bloodless lips parted in a ghastly smile. 
Oh ! P'sha ! [Jumps up.~\ I am getting childish. The 



62 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

man is dead. He must be so. Even had he survived 
the bullet, which I doubt, old Grimes, for his own safety, 
would have got him out of the way. Besides, had he 
lived to speak, I could never have escaped so easily, 

\_Enter Waldaur, u. e. l. 

Wald. Ah, my dear Mr. Harwood, you gave us the slip. 
Jonas. For a moment only, to see my daughter. 

Wald. Ever thoughtful of others. And your lovely 
daughter, she will not join the dances ? 

Jonas. No, dear child. She's fresh from a convent, and 
has, as yet, no taste for worldly pleasures. 

Wald. Plenty of time for that. Don't urge her. I de- 
sire to present you to some American friends — newly ar- 
rived. [Jonas shows uneasiness.!^ I have but now been 
telling them of my great, good fortune in finding in you the 
man to whom we owe our wealth, and more than our lives. 
Jonas. I fear you overrate the little service that I was 
permitted to perform. It was but an act of common 
humanity to write the letter and send your son's effects, 
when I learned your whereabouts. And as for the stock, 
it was worth but a trifle at that time. True, your son had 
pledged it to our firm, and my business partner was greatly 
opposed to my course in the matter, but I silenced his op- 
position by paying him the face value of the certificate. 
[Wald. takes his hand '.] 

Wald. My noble friend ! What soil but America, what 
atmosphere but the great boundless West can produce such 
types of manhood ? It was an act to make every Ameri- 
can proud of his nationality. 

Jonas. f hank you. You were telling me of your old 
family castle this evening, when I was called away. 

Wald. Ah, true ! When, through your noble generosity, 
great wealth poured in upon us, I saw a chance to realize 
the one great ambition of my life — to redeem from alien 
hands the grand old ruin that had been the home of my 
family for many generations, and to pass there in its feudel 
halls, rich in a thousand heroic memories, a portion, at least, 
of the remaining years of my unworthy life. 

Jo?ias. A most commendable ambition, truly. And you 
own it now? 

Wald. Yes ; thanks to you. And there we pass a por- 
tion of each year, living, for the time, an ideal life, com- 
muning with the past, and picturing in our minds the bat- 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 63 

ties that my fathers fought about its crumbling walls. And 
then studying the almost invisable lineaments of the stern 
wariors and noble dames who look at us from each alcove, 
niche, and panncl. 
Jo?ias. And during your absence it is unoccupied ? 

Wald. Yes ; save by two old and trustworthy family 
servants. 

Jonas. If, on our sight-seeing tour, we should chance to 
visit the Rhine, I should greatly enjoy seeing the old 
place ; doubly so, since, as you say, I indirectly enabled 
you to regain it. 

Wald. At last I have a chance to grant you a request, 
though but a slight one. I have anticipated your wish. 
[Takes letter from his pocket a?id ha?ids it to Jonas. ] In 
this letter you will find discribed the castle's sear, minutely. 
Also a letter to my honored old steward, that will make you 
the castle's lord so long as yourself and your lovely daugh- 
ter will honor the old ruin by accepting its hospitality. 

Jonas. \_Putti?ig letter in pocket.^ You are very kind. 
We will endeavor to merit your hospitality, as we shall 
certainly honor the traditions bequeathed to the old place 
by the heroic men and virtuous women, whose time-dim- 
med faces adorn its walls. 

Wald. You will honor me in honoring them. 

[Aurelia runs on L. u. E. 

An. O, Mr. Waldaur ! Here you are. I told your wife 
I would find you. 

Wald. You were very kind, indeed, my dear young 
friend. I go at once. But first permit me. You are 
Americans. You should know each other. Mrs. Man- 
drake, permit me to introduce a dear friend, Mr. Harwood, 
of Boston. 
Aurelia starts upon seeing Jonas' face, but quickly recovers 

herself, and assumes former light mamier. 

Au. I — delighted, Mr. Harwood, and hope to know 
you better. Butjustnowl am sure you will excuse me, 
for I have promised to take this naughty boy to his 
mamma. 
Takes Waldaur's arm, he smiling pleasantly, they go up 

L., turn at exit and Aurelia again looks sharply at 

Jonas. Exit Waldaur a?id Aurelia l. u. e. 

Jonas. How that woman stared at me, and there was 
something half familiar in her face. P'sha ! I frighten at 



64 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

my own shadow of late. [Moves nervously about room.^\ 
I wonder where that girl can be? She seldom leaves her 
room. What is to be the end of this new phase of my ad- 
venture? Six months ago, the idea of Jonas Hardy seri- 
ously in love would have seemed to me the very height of 
absurdity. But for weeks I have felt the meshes weaving 
themselves about me. I have grown jealous of every eye 
that looks at her. She fills my waking thoughts and haunts 
my dreams. The very touch of her fingers sends the blood 
tingling through my veins, and then she calls me "father," 
and the breath freezes in my throat. A score of times as 
I have held her in my arms, and looked into her innocent 
black eyes, the demon of mad passion has almost torn the 
mask aside and cast me prostrate at her feet. It will come ! 
It will come ! I feel it, I know it ; but not now, nor here. 
I'll leave this place to-morrow, and go — go where? To the 
old ruin on the Rhine. There for a time, at least, she will 
be wholly mine. There no eye, save mine, can feast upon 
her dainty loveliness. No hand save mine can touch her 
virgin flesh. 

[Exit Jonas r. i e. 
Enter l. i e. Cadwallader and Doctor M. arm-in-arm. 

They wipe their mouths, swell up, and beam with satisfac- 
tion. Cad. whispers in Doctor' s ear. Doctor feels in 

vest pockets, takes out cloves, each take one. 

Cad. Now that's what I call a white man's drink. 

Dr. Nine years old, Cad. 

Cad. And the aroma of blue grass in every drop. 

Dr. Cost ten dollars a gallon. 

Cad. Cheap at any price. Sink the expense. Old Sledge 
can stand it. [Punches Dr. in ribs. Both laugh heartily. 
Doctor stops suddenly and looks about roo?n.~\ 

Dr. Say, Cad; just drop Old Sledge, will you? 

Cad. Certainly, of course. Excuse me, excuse me. 

Dr. What have you done with Armitage ? 

Cad. He's wandering about as restless as a disembodied 
spirit. I don't believe he ever sleeps. In New York, Liv- 
erpool, London, Paris, here, always the same. Day and 
night he continues his sleepless search. I sometimes fear 
the fellow will lose his mind. 

Dr. Not a bit of it. He has too steady a nerve and too 
determined a purpose for that. He might lose his voice 
again, which I doubt, but never his head. I exacted a half- 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 65 

way promise from him to-night that he would join us here, 
if only for half an hour. We must try to occasionally 
break the current of his thoughts. 

Cad. Poor fellow had another letter from his mother 
to-day. 

Dr. Good news or bad ? 

Cad. Both. You know his father was an invalid for 
years. The visit John made to his home before sailing from 
New York, affected a reconciliation, and seemed to brighten 
the old man up wonderfully, but a reaction set in, and the 
poor old fellow passed quietly away. 

Dr. That's the bad news. What's the good? 

Cad. The good is that John inherits a handsome fortune, 
and will be able to prosecute his search to the ends of the 
earth if he wants to do so. 

Dr. Any late arrivals reported at the American Consul's? 

Cad. Yes, several. But nothing that looks like our man. 
There is one Harwood and daughter, of Boston, and they 
are guests at this hotel. I learned it only an hour ago. I 
haven't asked any questions, as Armitage objects to it, and 
still registers himself under an assumed name. 

Dr. That's a wise precaution. 

Cad. Doc, I've had a bit of bad luck myself. One of my 
pieces of luggage has gone astray between Paris and this 
point, and worse luck, it is the one containing all of my 
papers, my appointment and detail on this case from the 
Governor, my extradition papers, and all. Why, if I should 
meet that man this minute, I haven't a scrap of paper to 
hold him on. 

Dr. But you had your letter of introduction to the 
Consul ? 

Cad. Yes, luckily, and that's all. I immediately had him 
cable for an order from the Secretary of State to retain the 
prisoner should he be found before I recover my papers. 
But I discovered my loss only an hour ago, and we will not 
hear from Washington before to-morrow. 

Dr. That will be time enough. 

Cad. Well, I hope so. [Aurelia runs on l. u. e 

Au. Oh, Doctor! Mr. Cadwallader! I've seen him ! I've 
seen him! 

Both. Seen who? 

Au. The murderer ! the murderer ! I saw him here, in 
this room, with my own eyes, ten minutes ago. 



66 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Both. Are you sure ? 

Au. Yes, I'm sure. I shall never forget that face, as I 
saw him, bending over the poor murdered woman, that ter- 
rible night. 

Cad. Did he recognize you? 

Au. I think not ; although I was introduced to him. 

Cad. What name? 

Au. Harwood. 

Cad. [Whistles.'] All right. Not a word. Go on with 
your dancing. There now go — go ! [ Urges Aurelia off 
L. u. E.] We must keep these men apart. 

Dr. Sure. 

Cad. Get your folks together, and retire to your rooms. 
This man might recognize some of you, although he has 
seen you but once. We must not frighten him away. The 
papers will surely be here to-morrow. 

Dr. What's your first move? 

Cad. To find Armitage and prevent a meeting between 
them, if possible. Quick, get your family together, and 
withdraw from the rooms. 

Dr. All right. Bring Armitage to our apartments when 
you find him. 
Exit Doctor l. u. e. Jonas e?iters r. i. e., crosses c. 

His eyes and Cadwallader's meet for a ??ioment. Cad- 

wallader, aside, takes a photograph from his pocket, 

and co?7ipares it with Jonas, who is looking about the 

roo?n. 

Cad. The gal was right. 

{Exit Cadwallader r. u. e. 

Jonas. I hope that fellow will know me the next time. 
Every man that looks into my face of late I fancy to be a 
detective. To-morrow shall see me safely out of this. Agnes 
is not in her room. I wonder where she can be ? 
Exit Jonas l. i. e. Mabel enters from veranda r. c, fol- 
lowed by maid. She hands a light wrap to maid. 

Mabel. Take it to the room, and in a few minutes return 
to me here. Do not stay from me long. {Maid courtesies 
and exits r. 2. e. Music!\ How lonesome the big, deserted 
rooms appear! Ah, I see; they are dancing now. And how 
gay and happy they seem. There are many Americans 
here, too. I could hear them conversing, from my window. 
And some spoke of California and San Francisco. Oh ! 
how I did want to come out and talk with them. To hear 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 67 

the voices of people from my own country ; to look into 
the faces of people from my own home. But papa seems 
to think 1 should speak to no one, but my maid and him- 
self. [Looking l.] How bright and happy the dancers are! 
I wonder if I shall ever dance ? At the convent they said 
that dancing was a sin. It seems as though all happiness 
is a sin. [Enter Jonas l. i. e.] O father, please do not 
scold me 

Jonas. Why did you leave your room, Agnes? 

Mabel. Agnes! I shall never become accustomed to that 
name. 

Jonas. O, yes; you will in time. 

Mabel. I so much prefer my own, or rather my other 
name. It was my mother's name, and it seems so strange 
to me to be called by any other. 

Jonas. There were very good reasons for the change, my 
child, which you shall know at the proper time. In the mean- 
time do not forget that the names of Mabel and Armitage 
are as unknown to you, as though you had never heard 
them. 

Mabel. I shall try to be obedient, father. 

Jonas. But you have not told me why you left your 
room. 

Mabel. I stepped out onto the balcony with my maid, to 
listen to the music, and then I ventured in, just to get a look 
at the dancers. They seem so bright and happy, and so 
beautiful. 

Jonas. I dare say they are happy enough in their way, 
but their way is not your way. 

Mabel. Is it so wrong, then, to be happy ? 

Jonas. It is not wrong to be happy, no. But scenes like 
these are not necessary to happiness. 

Mabel. Then why do you join them ? 

Jonas. 1 have not been dancing. Why, Agnes, \taking 
her in his arms,~\ I can find more happiness in one moment 
in your presence than in hours of such scenes of frivolous 
gayety. 

Mabel. I suppose, as a dutiful daughter, I ought to feel 
flattered by that. But you have had your days of youth- 
ful pleasures and enjoyments. I have had no girlhood, no 
bright companionship, only books, books, books, and pray- 
ers and tasks. But even that life had some hours of bright- 
ness, for I had people of my own sex and age with whom 
to pass my few hours of recreation. 



68 FROM SIRE TO SON J OR, 

Jonas. I expect I am very selfish and hard-hearted. 

Mabel. O, no, you are not. And pardon me if I appear 
discontented. I do not mean to complain. I think the 
sound of the music must have made me a little sad for a 
moment. Pray forgive me, father. [She kisses his hand. 

Jonas. Forgive you, my child! Forgive you ! \_After a 
struggle, kisses her Jore head. Aside. ] O God ! who will 
forgive me ! 

Mabel. [Surprised^] Why, father, how you tremble ! 
Your hands are burning. I'm so sorry that I wounded 
you. 

Jonas. Never mind, my darling, it is past now. I am 
wrong, I dare say, in keeping you mewed up so closely, 
but I love you so dearly that I dread to have others look 
upon you. I am jealous of your very thoughts. 

Mabel. Why, father, such a love seems terrible to me. 

Jonas. Had you not better return to your room ? 

Mabel. Please let me remain and listen to the music, only 
for a short time. I told my maid to rejoin me here. 

Jonas. I can deny you nothing. But it is late, and in ten 
minutes you must be in your room, remember. 

\_Exit Jonas l. i. e. 

Mabel. How strange and ill at ease he seems to-night! 
Indeed, each time we meet of late there seems a something 
in his manner, I know not what, that half frightens, half re- 
pels me. I blush to confess it, even to myself, but a father's 
loving care and protection has not brought me that happi- 
ness I had so longed and hoped for, and I try so hard to 
love him, too ; to realize that he is to me father, mother, all. 
But there are moments in which his endearing embraces, in 
which I had thought to find such a world of contentment 
and happiness, seen to fill me with an indescribable terror. 
[Sits on ottoman r. c] O, my poor mother, whose voice I 
may never hear, whose earthly love I may never know, let 
your gentle spirit hover near me, to teach me a daughter's 
duty, to inspire me with a daughter's affection. [Takes tip 
mandolin."] A mandolin! The very name is dear to me, for 
it is associated with memories of a mother's love. [Takes 
letter Jrom her bosom.] How jealously have I guarded these, 
the last lines she ever wrote me, and oh, how often have I 
bathed them with my kisses and my tears! [Reads.] " My 
darling daughter ! Upon your fifteenth birthday, we send 
you, with our great love, a mandolin. It is your father's 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 69 

favorite and mine. It is his desire that you learn it. My 
darling, how earnestly I pray that ere another birthday 
comes we can offer you the shelter of parental love, and 
that we may together pour out our voices in songs of praise 
that a merciful Providence has united us in the sanctity of 
'Home, Sweet Home.' Do not be impatient. Be studious, 
obedient and cheerful, and trust the great wisdom of your 
Heavenly Father, who, in His good time, will bring you to a 
loving mother's sheltering arms. Mabel Armitage." [Armi- 
tage appears in backgrounds Mabel kisses letter and places 
it in her bosom.] My sainted mother! And that you should 
die before we could look into each other's eyes ; before I 
could feel your loving arms about me, your mother's kiss 
upon my lips. It seems so strange to me — she said my 
father was so fond of the mandolin, and yet I often sing with 
it, in his presence, without the slightest recognition. 
She sings a verse of " Home, Sweet Home" accompanying 

herself on mandolin. Armitage gradually draws near 

to her, attracted by the voice. As she finishes, he reaches 

out as though to take her i?i his arms, realizing picture 
from first act. Mabel turns to lay down mandolin, their 

eyes meet. She rises quickly, and Armitage exclaims : 

Armitage. Mabel ! 

\_She shrinks r., half frightened. 

Arm. \_Partially recovering himself] Do not go. Pray 
pardon me — I fear I frightened you. Please remain. \_She 
hesitates^ I beg you to be seated but for a moment. 

Mabel. I fear my father is waiting for me. 

Arm. Your father! 

Mabel. Yes, sir. He left me but now. 

Arm. I will not detain you long. Your song attracted 
me, for it told me that, like myself, you were an American. 

Mabel. Yes, sir; I am. \_She sits half reluctantly. 

Arm. It is such a happiness in alien lands to meet those 
who speak our own tongue. And how much greater the 
charm to hear a native song sweetly sung by a native 
tongue, and the song itself a pure heart-offering of an 
American absent, like ourselves, from home and kindred. 

Mabel. It was my mother's favorite and one of her last 
wishes that I should learn the song of "Home, Sweet 
Home." 

Arm. Her last wish. Poor child! Then you — you are 
an orphan. 



70 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Mabel. O, no; I have a father. 

Arm. Ah, yes; you have a father. I know you will 
think me very rude and persistent, but your face for a mo- 
ment startled me in its striking resemblance to one loved 
and lost, and for a moment I fancied I must be dreaming. 

Mabel. [Aside. ,] How strangely he looks at me. [Rises. 

Arm. Do not go. Do not leave me. 

Mabel. [Aside.] Some fascination seems to charm me to 
this spot. [Sits. 

Arm. You started when I called you Mabel. The name 
came unbidden to my lips. It was the name of my wife, 
who is dead ; and it was her face, as I first saw it, that your 
own so vividly recalled. It is also the name of my daughter, 
now of your own age. 

Mabel. You have a daughter of my age, and her name is 
Mabel? 

Arm. Yes; Mabel — the name of her mother. 

Mabel. [Aside.] How strange ! how strange! 

Arm. And now I hope you will understand and pardon 
my unseemly emotion. 

Mabel. O, yes, sir : I am not at all offended. [Aside.] 
What a strange fascination is in his voice! His very pres- 
ence seems to hold me as in a spell. 

Arm. Have you been long in Italy? 

Mabel. No, sir; but a few weeks. 

Arm. And you are, I presume, from New York? 

Mabel. No, sir; from San Fran — from Boston, sir. 
[Aside.] Oh, what have I said? I am disobeying my 
father. 

Arm. Disobeying your father ? 

Mabel. [Half rising.] I think I should go, sir. 

Arm. Not yet, I pray. You do not fear me ? 

Mabel. Fear you? O, no, sir. 

Arm. And you are right. A daughter could be no more 
sacred in a loving father's presence than you are in mine. 

Mabel. [Aside.] Each word he utters, and everv tone of 
his voice, seems to draw me nearer to him. O, Heavenly 
Father, forgive and guide me if I am doing wrong. 

Arm. Your home is Boston ; [She hangs her head.] and 
mine is in far-away California. 

Mabel. California! And you are long from there? 

Arm. Not long ; and but one day in Italy. 

Mabel. And your daughter Mabel — she is there? 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 71 

Arm. No, not now. 

Mabel. O, then she is here with you. 

Arm. Each instinct of a father's heart answers, ' * Yes, she 
is here with me." 

Mabel. [Aside.'] How strangely and how earnestly he 
speaks ! 

Arm. And your — your father — I am sure he loves you 
devotedly, and by that devotion supplies in part, as only a 
father's love could do, the great void you must feel in the 
loss of a mother's loving care. 

Mabel. O, yes ; he is very kind to me. But, sir, I have 
never known a mother's tenderness* [Aside."] O, what 
have I said ? 

Arm. Nothing, my child, that should have remained un- 
spoken. I understand. It is your father's wish that you 
should not meet strangers or speak of your past. 

Mabel. Yes, sir; such is his desire. 

Arm. [Affecting a pleasant manner.] But dear me ! how 
ungallant I have been to occupy so much of your time 
without even introducing myself. I am free to tell you my 
name : yours it is your privilege to withhold. My name is 
Alfred Armitage. 

[Jonas Hardy appears l. u. e. 

Mabel. [Starting up.] Alfred Armitage! 

Arm. Do not go until you have told me your name. 

Mabel. [Hesitatingly.] My name is — Agnes Harwood. 

[Jonas quickly exits l. over veranda. 

Arm. [Aside.] Poor child ! poor child! His plans have 
been carefully laid. [Aloud.] My daughter's name was 
Mabel Armitage. She was placed in her infancy in the 
Convent of the Sacred Heart, in San Francisco. 

Mabel. Oh, what can this mean? 

Arm. In failing to visit her, and to win and retain her 
affections as we should have done, her mother and myself 
committed a grievous error, and grievously have we been 
punished. But, Heaven forgive us, in our blind ignorance, 
we believed we were performing a sacred duty. Our lives 
had not been guiltless, and we dreaded the hour when the 
shadow of the parents' faults should darken the life of an in- 
nocent child. And so we believed, and in that belief gov- 
erned our lives, until one day six months ago. In that 
convent with our child, a pure young girl had died. Fifty 
fair young creatures, in raiment white and spotless as their 



72 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

own lives, were returning in procession from the sad scene 
of the poor orphan's burial. As they entered the convent 
gates, a pale, anxious woman, leaning upon the arm of a 
thoughtful, silent man, eagerly scanned each passing face. 
Suddenly an exclamation of mingled joy and pain broke 
from the woman's lips. A fair young girl, the very image 
of herself, was passing before her. Seizing both the soft 
white hands in her own, she bathed them with her kisses 
and her tears, and while the poor, frightened child stared in 
wonder, the husband bore the woman fainting from the 
scene. 

Mabel. O, I remember — I remember! 

Arm. You remember ? 

Mabel. I do— I do! 

Arm. And that night, in the solitude of their chamber, 
that man and woman knelt and prayed for heavenly 
guidance. They asked that their eyes might be opened, 
and their path of duty made plain. 

Mabel. O, what am I hearing? What is the mystery of 
this man's power? 

Arm. That prayer was answered. Their duty was made 
plain ; but, in the moment of its fulfilment, the hand of the 
assassin stretched that poor mother lifeless on the earth, 
and left the husband maimed, bleeding, and speechless at 
her side. 

Mabel. O, Heaven ! is this a dream or a revelation ! 

Arm. No, no, my child ; no dream ; but the blessed 
truth is dawning upon you. O, speak, my child, speak! 
I long to hear you proclaim the truth I fear to utter. You 
remember the pale woman at the convent gate ? 

Mabel. I do— I do ! 

Arm. Then your name is not Agnes, but Mabel ? 

Mabel. It is — it is! 

Arm. Not Harwood, but Armitage ? 

Mabel. It is — it is. [Jonas re-enters over veranda fol- 
lowed by group of uniformed police. All characters enter 
quickly. ~\ And that poor woman at the convent gate. 

Arm. That woman was your mother. 

Mabel. My mother ! then you are 

fonas. Seize that lunatic ! 

Arm. \_T71rning quickly, sees Jonas, and rushes at him 
with a shriek.'] At last ! at last ! 
Armitage is seized by officers. Jonas passes down r. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 73 

Mr. and Mrs. Waldaur into r. cor. Doctor, Ham- 
ilton and ladies into L. cor. Auxiliaries filling the 

background. 

Arm. Who arrests me ? Who accuses me of crime ! 
There's the criminal ; there's the man you seek. I've 
traveled ten thousand miles to find him. Arrest that man ! 

Jonas. [To officers^ You hear the ravings of the maniac! 
Why do you not remove him ? 

[Cadwallader enters quickly L. 

Arm. [To Cadwallader.] Quick, man, your papers ! 
Where are they? Don't let him escape. 

Cad. [Aside to Armitage.] My papers have been de- 
layed. I expect them every hour. Without them we are 
powerless. We must not frighten him away. Let him 
appear to triumph — it is only ior a day. 

[Cadwallader goes down l. 

Jonas. Why do you not remove that creature. Can you 
not see that the ladies are frightened and their pleasures 
disturbed. See, my daughter is almost fainting. 

Arm. Your daughter ! Audacious liar ! My child, an 
awful fate has threatened you, but watchful eyes and loving 
hearts will be near you from to-night. Remember that pale 
woman at the convert gate. Should danger menace your 
honor or your life, call upon your father's name, and though 
walls of stone and bars of steel should shut him in, your 
voice will bring him to your side. Be brave and fearless, 
when the hour comes, the man will be there. 

Jonas, Away with the madman ! Come, my child. 

[Jonas draws Mabel to his side. 

Arm. [ Wildly7\ Touch her not ! My child, fly from 
that man as from a pestilence. There is pollution in his 
presence, and poison in the air he breathes. Better ten 
thousand deaths than one moment of his loathsome touch. 
Away from his side, I say. Yo7C are clingi?ig to your 
mother' s 7nurderer ! 
Mabel shrinks r. cor. under the protection of Mr. and 

Mrs. Waldaur. Armitage on picture c. restrai?ied by 

officers. Cadwallader, Doctor, Hamilton, Mrs. 

Mandrake and Aurelia form a group in l. cor. 

Stage is filed at back with ladies and gentlemen who 

have ente? r ed from the ball-room l. Jonas r. 

Curtain. 



ACT IV. 

Interior of a tower in an old castle on the Rhine. The 
room is round or octagonal in shape. Walls and ceilings 
represent old frescoes nearly obliterated by time. The walls 
are covered with full le?igth portraits of men in armor 
and antique coshimes, and women in different styles of 
ancie?it dress. No door is visible, but many of the pictures 
are panels that revolve, forming entrances to the room. In 
L. u. E. a log fire is burning in a?i old-fashioned fire- 
place, r. u. E. is an alcove hung with antique drapery, 
which, being drawn aside, reveals a?i old-fashioned bed 
made up as though for use. A few pieces of antique fur- 
niture about the room. The back of scene is almost en- 
tirely filled by large folding windows openi?ig onto a 
massive stone balcony overlooking the Rhine by moo?ilight. 
The window-panes are small, round, oval and diamond- 
shaped stained glass. The windows, when lhrow?i open, 
reveal stro?ig moonlight effect on the distant waU rs, and so 
painted as to convey the idea that it is seen from a great 
height, a red lens i?i fire-place filling the interior with 
mellow red light. Heavy climbing vines seen clinging to 
the balcony c. and a few large vines growing up above 
balcony, as though extending up to cornice or roof. Cru- 
cifix, ca?idle, &c, R. between window and alcove. 
At rise of curiam a full le?igth portrait L. revolves, forming 
door, through which Parsons enters, followed by Jonas. 
Parsons carries old-fashioned lamp, which he places on 
table. Lights half up. Jonas carefully surveys the sur- 
roundings. 

Parsons. This, sir, is the panel-chamber which my mas- 
ter's letter mentioned, and which you were so anxious to 
inspect. I have had it made as presentable as possible. It 
is a favorite resort of my master's, and, as you will see, he 
has added some modern comforts. But his desire has 
always been, while preserving the old place from decay, to 
keep it, as nearly as possible, intact. 
fonas. Yes, I see. 
Parsons. You will observe there are no doors to be seen, 

(74) 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 75 

yet many of the pictures are panels leading to the different 
stairways, all centering in the grand corridor below. Mr. 
Waldaur seems to love the very stones in the old walls, and 
for these faded portraits of his ancestors, he has a perfect 
veneration. 

Jonas. You speak excellent English. 

Parsons. Naturally : I am an American, sir, and for forty 
years a member of Mrs. Waldaur's family. I was her tutor 
in childhood, long before our terrible war, which swept 
away the fortune of her family. But I remained with them 
during their years of poverty, and when brighter days came 
to them, they seemed to vie with each other in an effort to 
make my latter years pass pleasantly. They brought me 
here two years ago. They saw that I fancied the old place, 
and so I am made its custodian during their absence. 

Jonas. This is not the main portion of the castle? 

Parsons. No, sir. This is the North Tower. [Going up 
to alcove R.] Here, you see, is a little niche, or alcove, just 
large enough for a bed. [Goes up and throws open window 
c, revealing balcony and view as described^ This balcony 
overlooks the Rhine. These old vines, they say, have 
clung to the walls for centuries. And yonder, on the rag- 
ged rocks, eighty feet below, is The Baron' s Bridal Bed. 

Jonas. The bridal bed ! 

Parsons. Yes. Did my master not tell you the legend ? 

Jonas. No. 

Parsons. Would you like to hear it ? 

Jonas. If not too much trouble. 

Parsons. Nothing can be a trouble to me that will afford 
entertainment to my master's guest. 

Jonas. You are very kind. 

Parsons. The tradition runs that during the old feudal 
wars, the young Baron Waldaur was, on his wedding day, 
summoned to the field. In this chamber he parted from his 
virgin bride, and, mounting his charger, hurried to the de- 
fence of his prince. On this balcony stood the fair Amelia, 
the bride of an hour, waving her lord adieu, and bidding 
him God speed and safe return. Three days later, so the 
legend runs, this castle was stormed and carried by the 
enemy. All the inmates had been killed or captured save 
the young bride, who was alone in this chamber. The 
Prince Ballenburg, the young Baron's deadly foe and 
former rival for Amelia's hand, knew of her presence here, 



76 FROM SIRE TO SON J OR, 

and sought to force an entrance. But the secret panels de- 
fied both his cunning and his strength, and so, when dark- 
ness came, he returned, and climbing by these old ivy 
vines, he reached this balcony and surprised the trembling 
bride upon her knees before the crucifix. Meantime, the 
young Baron, returning victorious from the field, recap- 
tured the castle and put the enemy to flight. Looking from 
this balcony the prince realized the fate that awaited him. 
The fair Amelia was kneeling at his feet, begging him to 
kill but not pollute her. In the corridors below he could 
hear the rapid tread of armed heels. The very walls seemed 
to echo with the clanging steel. He seized the trembling 
bride in his brawny arms and bore her towards yonder 
couch, when she, with God-given strength, tore herself 
from his grasp, rushed on to yonder balcony, and, with a 
wild shriek, plunged to her death below. At this moment 
every panel opened, and the young Baron and his retainers 
filled the room. The prince was slain, and as he fell, 
pointed, with a mocking laugh, to the balcony. Hurrying 
thither, the young Baron saw the white body on the rocks 
below, and crying, "Amelia, my bride, one in life, so shall 
we be in death !" he took the frightful leap, and when the 
retainers reached the spot, they found them clasped in each 
other's arms, their, lips sealed in death. And so that pile 
of rugged rocks is called " The Barons Bridal Bed." 

Jonas. A very interesting legend. They were wonderful 
fellows, these old barons — weren't they? 

Parsons. So it would seem, if we are to believe all of the 
traditions and legends so religiously preserved among their 
descendants. 

Jonas. I presume Mr. Waldaur has given you no notice 
of the time of his probable return. 

Parsons. No sir. I do not expect him for a fortnight at 
least, unless some entirely unexpected event should hasten 
his return. 

Jonas. Thank you. I presume my daughter has changed 
her attire by this time- You may, if you will, conduct her 
here. 

Parsons. With great pleasure. Do not hesitate to call 
upon me for any service. My master's letter tells me that 
during your visit you are to receive every attention that he 
himself would have a right to expect. 

Jonas. Thank you. [P 'arsons exit through panel L. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 77 

Jonas. The race is nearly run. The meshes of the net 
are tightening about me, and, try as I will, I cannot fly from 
my fate. A score of times I have resolved to abandon all 
and seek safety in flight, but a power greater than my own 
will controls me, and a nameless fascination chains me to this 
girl's side. When, by a bold and desperate ruse, I saved 
myself and left him a prisoner, every instinct of self-preser- 
vation cried " Fly ! fly ! fly while you may !" but I looked 
into her eyes, and I was a slave again. A slave to a passion 
so intense and so terrible that I shrink from its contempla- 
tion, though I cannot free myself from its spell. I have 
played a desperate game. So far I win, but the cards are 
out to beat me, and in the hands of a player more desperate 
than myself. I know my man, and I know the world's not 
large enough for us both. But I want no more blood upon 
my hands. There is but one crime in the calendar that 
can make me blacker than I am, and I feel myself half 
longingly, half fearfully drawn towards it. It is an abyss 
upon whose brink I have long been treading, and which 
to-night seems yawning to receive me, like a bottomless pit 
overgrown with tempting fruits and flowers. And shall I 
seize the fruit and die amid the perfume of the flowers, or 
wander on to meet my certain fate, and leave the dainty 
morsel for other hands to pluck in safety. \Savagely.~\ No! 
no! a thousand times no! I am in the whirl of fate, let her 
dash me where she will. 

Jonas walks about the room, examining its appointments . 
Draws aside the curtain R. u. E. exposing bed. Listens 
as though he heard footsteps, then passes out onto balcony 
and disappears. Pa?iel opens l. a?id Mabel is shown iri 
by Parsons. She is i?i pure white, of soft, cli?igi?ig 
material, trimmed with soft lace or swansdown, a robe de 
chamber. The design is to have her appear as a mere 
child, just eyiteri7ig womanhood. 
Mabel. Why am I brought here, sir ? 
Parsons. It is your father's wish. He desired this old 
room to be especially prepared for you. 

Mabel. It seems such a height, and so far from the other 
apartments. 

Parsons. True, but still, I think you will find it very 
comfortable. The old tower has the sun during the entire 
day, so that it is thoroughly dry, and the fire has been 
lighted for some hours. The bed has been newly made, 



78 FROM SIRE TO SON , OR 

and you will be the first, excepting my master, to occupy 
it. Indeed, you are highly honored, for this is my master's 
favorite room, and has never before been occupied by a 
guest. 

Mabel. You are most kind and thoughtful. But my 
maid, she will share it with me ? 

Parsons. I fear not. Your father selected an apartment 
for her in the east wing of the castle, a long distance from 
here, through many corridors and winding stair-ways. 

Mabel. That's very singular. 

Parsons. Good night, Miss Harwood, and may the old 
panel-chamber bring you sweet slumber and happy dreams. 

Mabel. I thank you, sir ; good night. [Exit Parsons 
through the panel.'] I cannot understand it all. This old 
place, and everything connected with it, seems so weird, so 
strange and unnatural. And each hour that I pass within 
its walls adds to the terror and superstitious dread with which 
the place inspires me. Sometimes I think I must surely be 
dreaming. I cannot seem to realize or comprehend the 
incidents that have been crowded into the past two days of 
my life. I cannot, for an instant, banish from my mind that 
strange, pale man, whose eyes seemed to look into my very 
soul, and read my every thought. The tears that fell from 
his eyes, the trembling, earnest voice, that held me as in a 
spell, the story of the weeping woman at the convent gate, 
whom he said was my mother. O, no! no! that was no 
dream, no dream ! [She sinks down by a seat l. c. Jonas 
enters and drops down r.] O my poor, pale, weeping 
mother, shall I ever look into your eyes again ? 

Jonas. I fear not. 

Mabel. [Starting up.] Oh! 

Jo?ias. You are not frightened, Agnes ? 

Mabel. I was startled a little, that's all. I did not know 
that you were here. 

Jonas. No, I was out on the balcony, enjoying my cigar 
and the beautiful view of the old Rhine by moonlight. 
Won't you join me there? 

Mabel. No, thank you. I greatly prefer being alone just 
now. Besides, I had a similar view from the window of my 
room below. I was very comfortable there ; why was I 
brought up here? 

Jonas. I thought this room more interesting. Besides, it 
is further removed from possible listeners, and I have that 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 79 

to say to you to-night that must be heard by no ears but 
our own. You must naturally have some curiosity to know 
what it is. 

Mabel. I have certainly wondered at our sudden mid- 
night departure from Naples, coupled with the terrible 
scenes that preceded our apparently guilty flight. 

Jonas. Guilty flight ? 

Mabel. What else can I think ? I have been taught that 
"the wicked flee when no man pursueth." Surely you 
appeared to be in perfect safety when the man whom you 
accused was removed to a prison, and yet, in the middle of 
the night, with scarcely an hour of preparation, we hurry 
from Naples, hardly sleeping or exchanging words until our 
arrival at this desolate place. 

Joyias. Scarcely desolate, my child. This is a famous old 
castle, the property of a dear old friend, and only the 
favored few are permitted to enjoy its hospitality. Besides, 
you have your father. 

Mabel. My father ! 

Jonas. Yes, child. Surely you have not wearied of my 
company so soon ! 

Mabel. Sir — I — I camiot call you father — the name seems 
to stop in my throat, but if I must speak plainly, I have not, 
from the first, found in your companionship that consolation, 
that confidence and happiness which my heart tells me a 
father's presence should have inspired. Heaven pardon me 
if I do you a wrong, but the events of that hour preceding 
our departure from Naples, seem to have changed my life, 
my very nature. That man's trembling voice is ever in my 
ears, like strains of sacred music ; his pleading eyes are ever 
before me, and the spell of his presence seems still to hold 
me. And his fearful words of warning as they bore him 
away — I can never forget them, " Better ten thousand 
deaths than one moment of his loathsome touch. My child, 
you are clinging to your mother's murderer." 

[She sinks sobbing into seat. 

Jonas. And you believe the words the madman uttered ? 

Mabel. I know not what to think or what to believe. I 
am but a child, sir, a helpless child. I have never known 
a father's protection or a mother's care. No contact with 
men or women, to teach me worldly wisdom. I only know 
that in my heart there has been a desperate struggle between 
its natural instincts and my sense of duty to you, and, for a 
time, instinct has gained the mastery. 



SO FROM SIRE TO SON J OR, 

Jonas. Then you repudiate me and my authority ? 

Mabel. I do not say that ; but every intuition of my 
nature tells me that you are not my father ! 

Jonas. And your intuitions are entirely correct. I am not 
you father. 

Mabel. Thank God for that ! 

Jonas. You are not complimentary. 

Mabel. Pardon me, sir, I scarcely knew what I was 
saying. 

Jonas. I understand — it was your instinct again. 

Mabel. And now, sir, please tell me who and what you 
are. 

Jonas. I am your fate, as you are mine. 

Mabel. Speak plainly, sir, and do not torment me. The 
man whom you called a madman, did he speak the truth ? 

Jonas. That you will never hear from me. We have done 
with the past. Let us now consider the present and the 
future, Agnes. [Moves towards her. 

Mabel. \_Shrinking '.] O, do not touch me ! Speak and I 
will listen, but do not touch me. 

Jonas. Sooner or later you will have to overcome your 
aversion to me, you may as well begin the^struggle now. 

Mabel. I cannot guess the import of your words. 

Jonas. Their import is fraught with fate for both of us. 
I am calm, you see, yet no man was ever more desperate or 
determined than I am at this moment. You say you 
became a changed being from the moment you met that 
strange man. I can well believe it. My whole being is 
changed since the hour when I took you in my arms and 
looked into your eyes. Every thought, every energy, every 
ambition concentrated in the one desire, and each day has 
added to its intensity. Agnes, I love you. 

Mabel. [Groans and hides her face. ~\ Oh! 

Jonas. Yes, I love you with a passion that pursues my 
waking thoughts, and haunts my dreams. A love that 
fills my mental vision and animates every fibre of my being. 
It is such a passion as inspires men to deeds of daring or 
tempts them to crime and death. 

Mabel. O Holy Virgin, let the spirit of my murdered 
mother hover near me now. 

Jonas. Can you in your heart find responsive echo to a 
love so absolute ? 

Mabel. Your words have filled me with an unknown ter- 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 8l 

ror. I can find in my heart an echo to nothing but my 
father's awful warning-. 

Jonas. Your father's? 

Mabel. Yes, my father's; for I know it now. " Better 
ten thousand deaths than one moment of his loathsome 
touch." Go! go! go! Leave me, I implore you! 

Jonas. It is plain you do not yet comprehend your situa- 
tion nor my desperate purpose. When a passion like mine 
is reciprocated, it makes the man a god; when it is re- 
pulsed, it makes him a demon. Your fate and mine hang 
upon your word. 

Mabel. Upon my word ? 

Jonas. Yes. I offer you my hand and name in mar- 
riage. 

Mabel. O, monstrous! What must you think of me? 
With what kind of beings has your life been passed that 
you thus insult all womankind in me ? 

Jonas. You cannot paint me blacker than I see myself, 
and your sublime anger but adds new temptations to your 
beauty and my ungovernable passion. 

Mabel. And you are a nian / In the books they gave me 
to read at the convent, the women were gentle and con- 
fiding; the men were brave and strong. Thinking you my 
father, I have tried to find in you the realization of that 
girlish ideal, but, with a breath, you sink yourself so low that 
I can only see you with eyes of pity. I can only feel for 
you a loathing and contempt. 

Jonas. I was prepared for all of this and more. Nothing 
that you can say or do will swerve me from my purpose, 
Agnes. [Moving towards her. 

Mabel. Back, sir! I am no longer Agnes! I am Mabel 
Armitage, and I command you to quit this room! There 
is pollution in your presence and poison in the air you 
breathe. Go! go! and never let me see your loathsome 
face again. 

Jonas. You have chosen your fate and must abide it. I 
should have preferred it otherwise, but you will not have it 
so. I cannot comply with your request. To leave you now 
would be to abandon a purpose which I have planned de- 
liberately, and which I shall execute remorselessly. In the 
pursuit of that purpose, scorn, epithet, and contempt fall 
harmless from me. 

Mabel. Man, man, at what awful crime do you hint ? 



82 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Jonas. There is but one crime more awful than that al- 
ready charged against me. That crime to-night shall be 
added to the list. 

Mabel. What sin have I committed that I should be thus 
assailed ? 

Jo?ias. The sin of being beautiful. The sin of arousing in 
me a demon that only that beauty can assuage. 

Mabel. [Sinking at his feet. ~\ O sir, I divine your fearful 
purpose. In the name of the mother who gave you life, I 
implore you to turn from this awful deed. Within a day or 
two at best, you will be discovered, and your punishment 
will be terrible. Fly while there is time and save yourself. 
I will forgive the past and forget the present, and I wall im- 
plore my father's forgiveness, too. O, curb the awful demon 
that is urging you to this worse than murder. By this one 
act, you may, in part, atone the past and go forth into 
the world a man again. 

Jonas. I will leave this minute. 

Mabel. You will ? 

Jonas. I will! But you must go with me. 

Mabel. O, no! no! no! 

Jonas. And I say yes. Here or elsewhere, now or here- 
after, you must be mine. 
Jonas moves tozvard her. She escapes him and runs out 

onto balcony. 

Mabel. [On balcony.^ O my father! I call upon your 
name. 

Jonas. Foolish child! This is no age of miracles. 

Mabel. He said when danger threatened my honor or 
my life, to call upon his name, and though bars of steel and 
walls of stone should shut him in, my voice would bring 
him to my side. 

Jonas. You are mad, come from that balcony. 

[Moving towards balcony. 

Mabel. Stop ! one step nearer, and my blood will be upon 
your soul. 

Jonas. What would you do ? 

Mabel. A deed for which I now ask forgiveness through 
Mary for Jesus' sake. 

Jonas. You would not commit self-murder ? 

Mabel. Better ten thousand deaths than one moment of 
your loathsome touch! [Jonas starts c] Stand where you 
are. I know a father's love will find me here. And w r hen 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 83 

he comes, he shall find me spotless, or find my body on the 
rocks below. 

Jonas. [Aside.'] And she will do it too. Impatient fool 
that I was, not to have heeded the legend of the Baron's 
Bridal Bed. 

Mabel. And now, sir, leave my presence or I shall leave 
yours. You still have a chance of escape by flight. One 
step in this direction, and all is over. 

Jonas. [Aside.] I have played too desperate a game to 
weaken now. But I must, by some subterfuge, get her from 
that balcony. 

Mabel. Do you linger still ? 

Jonas. I go. I do not ask forgiveness, because I do not 
deserve it. [Moves tip to panel and opens it.] But I would not 
have your blood upon me — I have enough of that already, 
and so I go. 
Disappers through panel L. , closing it. AJter a briej pause , 

Mabel enters the room, moves towards door a step, then 

raises hand to her head a?id heart, a?id Jails in a swoon c. 

The pa?ie I slowly opens, Jonas looks cautiously in. Sees 

Mabel, enters, closes and locks panel, putting key in 

pocket. 

Jonas. [In whisper^] Fierce as a tiger in the moment of 
danger, and when she thinks it past, woman-like, she 
swoons. I could swear I heard strange voices murmuring 
in the court below. [Rushes quickly up onto balcony.] Can 
they have run me down so soon! O, no, it is my guilty 
conscience that makes each chirping bird and falling leaf a 
nemesis. I feel a premonition of impending doom, but the 
destiny that has wrought my fate controls it still, and chains 
me to this spot. 

Mabel. [Half recovering and half rising.] O, no! no! 
no! not yet. Let me pray first, let me pray. [Recoveri?ig 
consciousness^] O, no, it could not have been a dream ; it 
was too real, too terrible. [Rises, looks about.] O, yes, I 
remember all now. That fearful man! But he is gone. 
O, thank Heaven for that! Quick! let me escape. [She 
starts l. 

Jonas. [From balcony^] There is no escape. That panel 
is securely locked. There are two keys. The one I hold, 
the owner of the castle the other. 

Mabel. And even death is denied me. 

Jonas. Are you reconciled to your fate ? 



84 FROM SIRE TO SON; OR, 

Mabel. I am reconciled to death. 

Jonas. So be it ; and I will, if need be, share it with you. 
I shall not be the first man or the last to face death for a 
woman's kiss. If you have a prayer repeat it quickly now, 
[Mabel kneels r. c. in prayer, Jonas enters room from 
balcony, stands c] for the cords of fate are tightening 
about us both. The very air is pregnant with dishonor 
and death. If there is a hell, nothing can save me from its 
tortures; and as bliss is denied me in the world to come, 
I'll seize one hour of Heaven in this. 

[Moves towards Mabel r. 
Mabel. [Shrinking r. in terror.] O my father, the hour 
has come ! 

Armitage, holding by the vines, springs onto the balco?iy, 
and into the room. He is in shirt sleeves and bare headed. 
Armitage. \_As he reaches balcony. ~\ The man is here. 

[Enters and sta?ids c. on picture. 
Mabel, with a scream of joy, rushes up and kjieels at her 
fathey^s feet, clinging to his knees. Jonas down into L. 
cor. 

Mabel O my father, by what miracle have you reached 
this place ? 

Armitage. [Lifting Mabel 2ip and looking into her face .] 
Tell me, child, and quickly, am I too late? 

Mabel. No, father, no. My Heavenly Parent guarded 

me until you came. 

[Armitage kisses her, and her head sinks upon his breast. 

Armitage. Thank God ! thank God! I have her pure. 

My child! my Mabel! sweet image of your murdered 

mother. At last! at last ! 

Mabel. But how did you reach this place? 
Armitage. As we arrived in the court below, I saw your 
pale face in the moonlight there, and heard you call your 
father's name. While others guarded the avenues of es- 
cape, the old ivy vines brought me safely to your side. 
Jonas moves stealthily toward panel. It opens, a?id Wal- 
daur enters, followed by Job Cadwallader, Doctor 
and Mrs. Mandrake, Hamilton, Aurelia and Par- 
sons. All are in traveling costume. Ladies with wraps, 
gentlemen with overcoats. Two uniformed officers are 
last, and remaiii standing by panel. Waldaur and the 
ladies congratulate Armitage and greet Mabel. All is 
done very quickly. 



THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 85 

Cad. [ To Jonas.] You escaped us very nicely at Naples, 
but we have the documents now. 

Jonas. What need of documents or delay ? I have lost. 
My life is his. [Pointing to Armitage.]. Let him take it 
and end the game. 

Mabel. O father, remember the Martyr upon the cross 
who said: " Forgive them, Father; they know not what 
they do." In this moment of great joy, cannot we, too, be 
merciful ? 

Ar7?iitage. My child, there are crimes so ghastly that in 
their contemplation Mercy hides her face behind the judg- 
ment seat, while outraged Honor wields the awful sword of 
justice. 

Jonas. Then why not kill me now ? 

Doctor. It is quite natural that you should court a sud- 
den death at the hands of an outraged husband and father, 
but your friends have other views for you. 

Jonas. What is to be my fate ? 

Cad. You will be taken to the scene of your crime. 

Hamilton. Where you will be tried by a jury of your 
countrymen. 

Armitage. And you will be hanged by the neck until you 
are dead. 

Mabel. O, blessed hour! How sweet and sacred is the 
instinct that tells me that a father holds me in his arms! 

Armitage. Forever and forever! 

Curtain. 



/O- 



T\ 



rom Sire) To Sox 



:& 



OR, 



The Hour and The 



AN ORIGINAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS, 



MILTON NOBLES. 



Entered at the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C, 
March, 18-87, by Milton Nobles, 

AS SOLE AUTHOR AND PROPRIETOR. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 



PHILADELPHIA : 

LEDGER JOB PRINT. 

1887. 



'S< 

























V 






'* k '**> 



*<■ 
















h' 
















^ 


















,0o. 






V * S 



W 












1 

V 






^ * 
















o x 










.0 e> 









<v 



■' 


















Jk\ 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




I jpiliftflfl! 11 

HIHII1 

Illfilffli™ 




IHilill 



I 




i 



!l! 



^■1 







mmam 



RBSfl 



iifii* 

IMIlHnL 



